


A Song for the Harvest

by rabbitprint



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Multi, Original Character(s), Paladins, Philosophy, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-01
Updated: 2010-04-01
Packaged: 2019-10-14 18:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 82,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17513603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: Respect, Tenacity, and Compassion. The core Virtues taught by the Church of the Holy Light bring comfort and guidance to countless souls. Yet for three paladins trying to ﬁnd their way in a world torn apart by war, the Virtues are anything but -- and the Light is far from kind. Set post-AQ, pre-BC.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> _First posted in 2010, and then taken down from AO3 to be turned into an original piece; however, the result ended up so different from its origins that this story can come back up again. It won't be finished, unfortunately, but here it is in case anyone feels nostalgic._

The sun of the Tirisfal afternoon was weak through the cloud cover. Hours of summer heat had thickened the humidity in the air, breeding promises of rain, but no assurances of relieving the haze. The world was slow and sticky. In the cloisters of the monastery, stone fought with wood; doors swelled and stuck on their hinges, bloating with moisture. Tables creaked, their legs uneven on the stones. Chairs were warm to the touch. Flies beat their translucent wings listlessly, and crawled along the windowsills in search of a way out.

In the gardens, one initiate lifted his hand to test the breeze, and remarked to his companion about the weather.

Inside the libraries, an acolyte squinted at the narrow windows. She scowled, reaching for the curtain sashes to draw them shut. The book she had been unsuccessfully attempting to transcribe lay open like a discarded insect: the parchment crinkling from residual dampness, ink refusing to dry.

One man was cursing in the halls.

Dim light made the inner cloisters murky -- a poor choice for his battleﬁeld. All his previous experience against enemy opponents had been outdoors, with each detail of their movements lit clearly by the sun. Now that sun worked against him. Aided by the glare coming through the windows behind her, his current opponent was a dervish of short knives and long reach. He had passed her twice, and had scored a shallow cut each time, but neither wound had slowed her speed; he was running out of ideas on how to stop her.

He squinted against his opponent and attempted to shift the balance of his sword into a parry. Heat made his grip clumsy.  His palms were sodden with sweat.

He wondered what the inquisitors would tell his family if he died.

"The Crusade will never falter in its defense against intruders," he spat -- or tried to, before the woman reversed her hand suddenly in an arc towards his head, and drove his wits into blackness.

With a sigh, Jenna pulled her punch-dagger back and checked the tines. One of them had scraped against a wall during her assault, scoring a pale line on the stones and a worse one on the edge of the metal. Careless work; she hadn't thought to be alert when taking the corner so sharply, and had come face-to-face with a hostile set of patrolling guards. She'd have to remember to have the dagger repaired.

The whole monastery had been a trial to ﬁght through. Despite the humidity working in her favor and weighing everything down, Jenna had still discovered opposition to her visit. She had not bothered to give her name at the front archways; similarly, she had not been provided with any sort of guide either. Her presence was seen as an intrusion, an unforgivable annoyance to monks who only wanted to drowse away the afternoon in peace. By the time she had searched through two wings of the estate, even the warning bells had begun to slack, as if weary of their efforts and hopeful that any invaders would be polite enough to die on their own.

She dropped to her knees beside the most recent guard to be felled. He groaned, struggling to recover his senses; with a practicality that had served her well on the ﬁeld, Jenna gripped his head by the scalp and rapped it against the ﬂoor. He shuddered, going limp. Deftly, she set the blade of her dagger ﬂat against his neck. The outline  of the metal pressed against the man's defenseless skin, indenting it sharply along the edge; then Jenna sighed, ﬂicking the weapon away before it could spill blood.

"You're lucky I'm not as bad as my mentor," she grumbled, rocking back on her heels. "I'd leave you with a scar to remember."

Turning the dagger, she prodded him experimentally with the pommel. When he did not twitch, she leaned forward and yanked his helmet off, testing its size in her hands. The man's mouth was half-parted, slack in his insensate condition; he did not stir when she dropped the helmet beside his nose, straps jingling, the metal booming like a hollow drum.

The helm rattled when she kicked it, bouncing off the ﬁnely carved wooden benches that decorated the monastery. She followed it along. One particularly vicious swipe of her foot sent the helmet hurtling in a straight line down the hall, narrowly missing a crash into an ornate candelabra.

A second kick knocked the candles over.

Slices of her reﬂection played Seek-Me oﬀ the windows as she padded deeper into the monastery, like ephemeral little girls ducking around the sills. Their originator was a woman  grown: skin browned from long hours on the road, a scar up one cheek and freckle spots down the middle. One of her earlobes was marred with a coin-sized knot of tissue where a cut had healed badly. The bridge of  her nose was crooked where a break had been left to mend on its own; it veered gracefully towards her right eye, giving her a rakish cant that she took frequent advantage of by tilting her head. She had a small mouth, with overly expressive corners that could have been destined for ﬂirtatious smiles -- hiding one moment, teasing the next -- or endless claims of innocence.

Instead, Jenna had turned it towards matters of war. She was as human as they came, with no pretense for great beauty and no use for it either. Jenna was a ﬁghter. She preferred knives to hayﬁelds. In the mirror of the stained glass, she could see the tight warrior's knot of her hair coming loose in tufts around her head, streaked with grime and sweat. Her brow was smudged with swordblack. She looked as if she had come straight from a battleﬁeld that was still raging in her absence; she looked exactly as she  _ should _ , which was completely out of place in a remote monastery.

The helmet rattled as she continued to kick it along. It bounced off corners and pillars, earning fresh dents each time. As Jenna worked her way down an elongated corridor, the helmet ricocheted off a windowsill and rolled unevenly, spending its momentum as it wandered towards a hunched shape sitting on one of the benches.

The ﬁgure lifted one boot, and stopped the unlikely missile against the arch of its heel. It bent down and picked up the helm with human hands. "Jenna."

Exhaling sharply, Jenna slunk forward. The patchwork light shifted around her, painting stained glass faces on the stones and across the man's legs. His pupils looked blown; she wondered if he'd remembered to eat. "Liasin."

He made a soft laugh at  her greeting and set the helmet  gently beside him upon the bench. Clad in simple plate, Liasin blended in with the Scarlets far better than she wanted to  admit. He'd left camp in the middle of a repair day, and she'd seen his regular armor waiting on the stands for adjustment -- the pauldrons he wore now were ﬁlched from his reserve gear, which had long been outdated as their battles grew less and less forgiving. His hair was worn ﬁeld-style; the straw-colored strands had been allowed to grow long by way of negligence, bound in twin hanks to keep them out of the way. Like the other paladins in the Brigade, Liasin chose to wield a mace for utility. It leaned against his leg, resting its blunt head against the interlocked stones of the ﬂoor. The dormant glow of enchantment puddled from it like a never-ending waterfall of dust, spilling motes of pale light that died before they hit the ground.

At ﬁrst she wondered if that was the only weapon he'd brought with him; then, after a second glance, she noticed the glimmer of Lethargy's hilt on the far side of the bench.  Plain as any practice weapon oﬀ the racks in Stormwind, the sword was made distinguishable only by the length of grey cord that Liasin had aﬃxed to the pommel to keep the blade from getting mixed in with the Brigade's  general armory. Despite the weapon's history, he'd refrained from any attempts to make Lethargy fanciful, only wrapping the leather of the hilt a second time with braided copper to give it a better grip.

The sword's presence was encouraging, but not by much. He looked dazed and awful, and she wanted to hit him for it.

Instead, she settled for scorn. Pursing her lips  together coquettishly as she gauged her words, Jenna readjusted her  punch-daggers on their belt. "So you're alive." The technicality was hedged. With  the man slouched over, hands folded on the pommel of his mace, he looked more like a propped-up corpse than a living being. Liasin was barely older than she was, but his thin shoulders were bowed beneath his armor; he sat like an ancient patriarch, crumbling underneath decades of guilt and poor choices. "Old Foulwind won't have to go recruiting another captain after all.  _ Maybe  _ I should recommend that he does anyway."

The threat seemed to give Liasin more spirit. He shifted his weight on the bench, straightening at last to look her in the face. The blue of his eyes looked bruised in the dusky cloister light. "That's assuming Blackwind would be able to  _ ﬁnd  _ one. You know how picky he can be."

"Even more reason why you should return quickly,  _ before  _ he gets angry." When words alone did  not have an eﬀect, she sharpened her tone. "Liasin. Come  _ on. _ "

He did not move, but his attention slid away. She followed his gaze with her own. Further down the hall -- almost hidden around a corner -- three guardsmen huddled together, the red and white of their Scarlet tabards crumpling over their armor. An automatic curse burst out of her mouth; with her luck, they would have been ordered to make sure Liasin stayed well into the evening. The same rules that allowed him to visit safely also bound him to the Scarlets' bizarre whims. Liasin's presence was tolerated so long as he took no hostile action and only sat in the halls, watched by an armed escort at all times. The libraries were banned to him, as were the deeper reaches of the stronghold. He was never allowed to heal any of the wounded Crusaders, or speak directly to the novices. As she understood it, they had also initially demanded his armor and his weapons in exchange for a plain linen robe -- but this at least, he'd found the spine to refuse.

No one in the Brigade could ﬁgure out why Liasin went to the Scarlet Monastery instead of visiting Light's Hope for his meditations. Most of them had tried.  _ Why d'you pray at a cathedral that's corrupt?  _ Coppershine had asked him once, and he'd pretended not to hear.  _ Why do they let ye come _ , she'd tried after that, and to this Liasin had replied,  _ Because they feel I want to be redeemed. _

Jenna had her own guesses. They sat like rotting chestnuts on  her tongue: too rancid to swallow, and too repulsive to spit out and reveal to the world.

The trapped heat of the monastery was painting lines of sweat along the seams of her clothes. She rolled her shoulders in a  futile attempt to loosen them and distract herself from brooding. Though she'd only bothered with a few choice pieces of plate, the chainmail that composed the rest of her armor was beginning to make  its weight known the longer that she waited. Her own choice armor was also in the care of the blacksmiths at camp; the greaves she'd been loaned were too big around the calves, and the cotton padding underneath had started to wad and chafe  the longer that she waited. She fought the urge to yell -- to shout or curse, condemn the Light, anything that might earn a reaction from any of them. The three Scarlets down the hall looked too nervous to be veterans. If she'd already encountered  Liasin's assigned escort, then they were currently disabled in unconscious and bleeding heaps, and she was in for an earful all the ride back to camp, no matter how patient she tried to be.

If not, then she could at least have fun before she earned a chiding.

"Are these your guards today, Liasin?" She cocked her head  towards them next. "Hello, I'm Jenna All-Bright." One of them waved; she favored him with a particularly wide grin before adding, "Hope you don't mind being buried at Faol's Rest."

They reacted predictably, two of them stepping forward around the corner, one back. The man in the lead -- she ﬁgured it was their captain, judging from how quickly he had thumbed his sword clear from its scabbard -- tossed his head in challenge, glaring at her down the bridge of his pinched, rat-like nose. Jenna wondered what he'd look like with it broken.

"You're making it very hard for me  to come here in Brigade colors," Liasin informed her pleasantly, interrupting her fantasy. He still had not left the bench. "We've started to build up quite  a reputation. One of them spat at me the last time I asked for their offerings plate."

Struck momentarily dumb by the news, Jenna resisted the urge to do the same. "Are you  _ serious? _ " she blurted, wheeling on a heel and fanning her hands at the paladin. "You're  _ tithing  _ to them? You know what they're capable of, and you're  _ still  _ giving them money! And  _ then  _ you wonder why you have to ask me for supply gold!"

Liasin had the poor grace to look  unruffed. "Not everyone in the Crusade joined out of sadism, Jenna. Most are common folk who wanted some sense back in their lives. They need to feel as if they can ﬁght back against the Scourge. Many are still desperate and confused -- and our attacking them only reinforces their fears. We shouldn't forget that they're people as well, underneath the red and white. How do you think they like it when we destroy their supplies and send them to the inﬁrmary? The Brigade alone has taken its fair share out of their savings. Do you think it's right to limit the Crusade's means of taking care of their people?"

"And by helping to fund them," she lashed  back, "you're also helping them continue to commit their acts of prejudice and torture. If they didn't have money, they wouldn't be able to ﬁght us at all. If they wanted to help their own people, they'd spend their gold on medics instead of swords. How do you rationalize  _ that? _ "

"I can't," Liasin replied quietly. The hush of his voice barely carried to Jenna's ears. "You know I can't."

Normally that conclusion was enough of a sign to end the argument, but Jenna sneered, unable to keep herself from pressing  her side of the issue. "I'll never understand why you encourage things that you claim to hate. Something is  _ wrong  _ with you for liking  these people. Or are you still obsessing over about what you couldn't stop?"

His eyes ﬂicked to the side, conﬁrming her suspicions. She was right.

Months had passed since the ﬁrst time the pair of them had braved the Crusade's domain. Out of their small group, only Jenna and Liasin had made all the way through to discover the cul-de-sac hidden within the twisting inner cloisters. Split apart from the others, she and Liasin had dodged carelessly through the hallways, expecting to ﬁnd only angered clerics and the threats of hurled books.

What they been confronted with had been far worse. There, in the stuﬀy interrogation chamber, even Jenna had lost control of her stomach to nausea. She had been the one to hassle the guards, driving them away from the cramped prison -- but Liasin had been the one to linger, staying behind to try and heal the victims that were too badly injured until she had had to brave the cloisters again, and drag him out herself.

Months had passed since then. She hadn't stopped wishing she'd gone back for him sooner.

"William," she said softly, resorting to his ﬁrst name in a moment of weakness. "There's no point in playing nice with the Scarlets. You can't change anything."

Liasin sighed. The weary tone was familiar; it hadn't been the ﬁrst time Jenna had assaulted his logic before, and she knew from long experience that it wouldn't be the last. "You  didn't come to ﬁnd me for a philosophical debate, Jenna." He reached out towards Lethargy, covering the hilt of the sword with his hand: an unconscious, habitual reassurance that she had seen him perform a thousand times before, usually when Blackwind was on a tirade.  "You might as well say what's on your mind."

Made wary by the shift in topic, Jenna tried to gauge the paladin's annoyance. The guards were of secondary importance; if any of them tried to attack, she had faith that she could drop all three before a fresh alarm could be raised, but Liasin's irritation was a treacherous thing, prone to subtle revenge and what he claimed were accidents with blessings. "Blackwind's about to break camp to move against the Bonegrinder," she admitted grudgingly. "He sent me to fetch you.  _ And  _ to remind you that it's not safe here. He  _ said, _ " she added with relish, "that I was fully authorized to use force if I thought you were in a threatening situation. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty threatening  _ right now. _ "

"The Monastery is always dangerous." Liasin arched an eyebrow, but the line of his mouth had softened, changing  from somber to wry. "Everyone's tried to assault this place at one point or another. It's nearly a rite of passage these days. Remember the last time the Brigade took someone here to show them the odds? There must have  been at least two different Horde guilds doing the same thing, judging from the colors on their tabards. And  _ then  _ the  _ ﬁghting  _ broke out."

"He was looking at me funny," Jenna interjected mulishly. "I was within my rights to defend myself."

"He was undead, Jenna. He didn't have any  _ eyes. _ "

The banter was putting her at ease.  Outside, the air was quiet. The alarm bells of the monastery had fallen completely silent, their brass tongues slumbering once more. Even so, Jenna remained grimly  aware that she was not entirely out of danger. Enough Scarlets could physically overwhelm her, regardless of her degree of combat skill; instinct kept her ears primed for any whispers of activity, even as she let her attention roam between the guards, Liasin, and her armor. The latter reeled her back in as she ﬂexed  her wrists. Distracted by a hardening spot of red on her thumb, Jenna squinted at it before realizing it was a blood blister. She couldn't remember which guard might have caused it. The splash of color was brilliant against the tan: the mottled, tiny glory of ruby turning into a hard spot, with a wad of pale skin on top. She poked at it, privately amused by the tiny clots before she popped her ﬁnger in her mouth and bit down hard.

Around the taste of warm iron, she mumbled, "You're still not moving."

At last, Liasin stirred, straightening up  and uncricking his shoulders. She could hear the pop of bone underneath his armor, testament to how long he'd been cramped. "Leave the poor guards alone," he ordered. His voice was tired. "Did you hurt anyone as you were coming in?" When she nodded, he sighed again. "I'll donate to their collections to help  pay for the damage you've done to them. Don't protest. How many?"

"Only a few. They're  _ annoying, _ " she added, defensively. "They  _ heal  _ themselves. If they just lay down and bled, it'd go much faster for all of us."

"They're no real threat to you, Jenna."

"They're a threat to my  _ livelihood, _ " she wheedled. "How else am I supposed to pay for the dents they put in my armor if I don't rummage through their pockets?"

He smiled then, unexpectedly, the moment of somber disposition hiding itself once more. It made him look entire campaigns younger. In one sudden motion, he stood. The trappings of his armor clattered on the bench; the thick-stitched cloak slid heavy as a shroud, licking at  his ankles. His mace brightened when he reached down to pick it up, the enchantments responding to his presence; Lethargy, true to its nature, did not react, remaining docile and dormant to the eye. Liasin slung both belts around his waist, patiently fumbling with the buckles to allow the sword to hang properly against his left hip, where it would not interfere with his shield arm.

Unable to restrain herself, Jenna leaned forward, her weight rolling onto the balls of her feet. "Why do you  _ do  _ this?" she hissed. Down the hall, the three guards shifted awkwardly; she shot them a thinly-tempered glare, unable to keep her silence any longer on the subject. "Can't you go visit Uther's shrine to clear your head? I know you'll probably stay there until the priest throws you out, but I'm sure we can bribe him. Eventually."

Liasin raised an eyebrow as he shook out his cloak, looking mildly vexed. "It's a matter of compassion, Jenna."

She scoffed. "Compassion. There you go again about the three principles of your Order: compassion, hope, and  _ nonsense.  _ If you're that dedicated, then why don't you stop the Scarlets from preaching their version of the Light? You can't possibly support their methodology."

Another tug, and Liasin ﬁnished settling both  of his weaponbelts in place, checking the swing of his arm. Satisﬁed, he leveled  a patient stare on her. She tried not to squirm. "You know that, and I know that, but not all the Alliance is aware of the corruption within their ranks, Jenna. Kill them without public cause, and you make them into martyrs. And if you take away the Crusade and gave people nothing in its place, who's to say that what they'll come up with to replace it won't be worse?"

"A paladin, pleading for evil to be allowed  to exist." Jenna rolled her eyes, hoping to dismiss the gravity of the moment. She felt leggy and restless. The mismatched chain and plate of her armor had settled onto her bones over the duration of the argument, as her muscles cooled and her heartbeat had gone to rest. One of her calves was  beginning to cramp. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Caught in the middle of digging his shield out from underneath the bench, Liasin paused. His silence held as he remained kneeling on the stones of the hallway, one hand braced on the ﬂoor, the other cupping the beveled edge of the shield's steel. "Perhaps you're right." Then his mouth quirked again, and he gave the same dry laugh as before. "It might not be the best philosophy out there."

"What an  _ understatement. _ " Giving  in to the  urge to move,  Jenna stretched, wiggling her ﬁngers. Her shadow rippled across the  ﬂoor as she shifted her feet through half-hearted ﬁghting stances. The ghosts of practice routines nipped at her ankles. "You'd make a ﬁne warrior, if only you could get your head out of the clouds. Are you sure we can't convert you?"

"And what good would a warrior be to Blackwind today?" he threw back in her direction. "You came looking for a paladin to serve as his captain. Bring him a Scarlet instead, and see if he likes that any better."

She grinned. Judging from the tone of the last line delivered, she'd managed to lure Liasin safely into good humor once more. "Come on. There's time to think, and time to act. And time  to get your things together, and get back to camp. Tell you what," she challenged merrily, knowing how she was pushing her luck, but unable to resist. "My horse is hitched south of here at the usual post. My signal horn's lashed to the saddle. The faster you get there and sound it, the less of a disturbance I make, and the less  _ you  _ have to apologize for. Sound fair?"

For a second, she thought she had him, but then Liasin  shook his head. "I still have to settle payment," he protested. "That might take close to an hour, depending on who you've left standing."

Jenna barked a laugh. The thrill of adrenaline was sneaking  into her bones, turning her giddy with the lure of fresh mischief.  "Do it fast, then," she warned. "There's a battle waiting to be fought, and the rest of the guild itching for it. You can't miss out on all the glory. Can you? Come  _ on, _ " she repeated, and  laughed, darting towards  the bench. Liasin began to reach for her -- but not fast enough, and she scooped  up the helm and danced away before he could get any misguided ideas about trapping her.

Back three steps, and she had a clear view of the hallway junction that harbored the cluster of Liasin's guards. With a snap of her wrist, she sent the helmet spinning directly towards them. One was too slow to dodge the unlikely missile; it smashed into his shoulder with a harsh  _ clang _ , causing him to throw up his arm with a shout as the helmet ricocheted off his armor and clattered to the ﬂoor.

Before the echoes even had time to fade, Jenna was oﬀ and away. A quick jog and a twist into a narrow service passageway, and she had left Liasin's hallway completely. As she plunged through a fresh wing of the libraries, a pair of monks lifted their heads with yelped cries of surprise. They overturned their benches as they scrambled to defend the chamber and its acolytes from her assault.

Jenna began to whistle through her teeth. The day was shaping up to be proﬁtable after all.


	2. Chapter 1

There is a wind in Winterspring called the Orphan's Dirge. It was named by the night elves ﬁrst, some say, and later translated by goblins who dug a stubborn waypost out of the snows. It blows west to east, quarterly, bouncing off the mountain crags and skipping clouds into the path of the sun.

Luck dies on that breeze; travelers as  well, for the safe roads go hidden in foul weather, and temperatures plummet. Adventurers lose their way and founder, staggering in snow-blinded circles only a scant distance away from shelter. The wind is sharp and biting. It skims heat out of clothing and leaves numbed ﬂesh behind. The Dirge sings when least expected. It kills in a whistle: a high-pitched, wavering wail, like a child crying for its home.

It crossed the full length of Winterspring one morning and buried three corpses under a fresh layer of snow.

The man who found them was, at ﬁrst glance, more beast than human. Wrapped in furs and hides, his limbs had been swaddled in layers  to keep his body heat from evaporating. Despite his bulk, he moved easily through the drifts, breaking waves of snow into clumps with a battered spear. The hand-sledge that dragged behind him squeaked, leather straps buckled snug as it bumbled over his footprints.

Setting down his sling of ﬁrewood, the man ﬂicked his gloves over the three frozen hawkstriders, eyeing dark spots of blood spattered on snow and twisted muscles gone stiff in the frost. The char marks  that stained the avians' ﬂanks were erratic; their hides were broken and crisped. The mouth of a cave lurked among the cliffs nearby, deep enough that its entryway was black with gloom. It should have provided enough shelter for all three animals. None of them had been left alive to share it.

"A waste," he called out, lifting his voice towards the cave. When nothing responded, the man tried again. "Come out! Anyone can tell this is no work of an animal. And besides," he added, more reasonably, "you'll want a hand cleaning up before you attract scavengers."

Several minutes passed before anything answered. The man waited with the doughty patience of a farmer who had watched crops grow tall in the sun, blood numbing in his toes as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Finally, the shadows in the cave mouth  stirred, and a lone ﬁgure emerged.

She crept into daylight warily, clinging to the edge of the cave mouth. Wrapped in a saddle blanket, she seemed more kin to a misshapen, runty bear cub than a person. He could not get a good look at her directly, catching only fragments of delicate cheekbones and a full-lipped mouth -- hints to femininity like the ﬂash of spots on a moth's powdery wing. The only clear thing about her was her pointed, fox-like chin, and a pair of desperate eyes.

Those eyes were what gave her away. Luminous and white, sheened over with a layer of green that mimicked the color of fresh leaves, they were nothing to be found native to Winterspring.  As she moved further into the snow-speckled light, turning her head, he realized that what he thought were decorations were her ears, which swept above her skull like the preened feathers of a bird too exotic for the cold. Next to her, he was big enough to be obvious in his heritage: human shoulders made wider by his winter clothes, human jowls covered with a neatly-trimmed beard that caught snowﬂakes and frost.

Her skin was chapped; her lips were cracked and bleeding. She licked them nervously before she spoke. "They were panicking. I didn't know what to do."

"Shh." The shush sprang out of him automatically, meeting her fear and gentling it. "You've never seen a storm this bad before, have you? The goblins like to tell me that the air here is cursed – and that it's driven the owlbeasts mad. Personally, I think it's just their way of collecting more inn fare from cautious travelers."

Her shoulders relaxed a fraction as he spoke, recognizing the jest for what it was. "I saw the moonkin as I traveled this wasteland. They did seem more aggressive than I expected."

"Most creatures have good reason to be wary of strangers these days. Are you injured in any way?"

The blanket was too dark to show blood. She stared back at him challengingly. "No."

Balked by the curtness of her reply, the man rolled his weight back on his heels. "Fair enough. As you can see," he began, nodding towards the sledge beside him and the neglected sling of wood, "I am a traveler through this area. My name is Granden, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I have seen night elves in the cities of late. But I have not yet had the honor of directly meeting a... quel'lorei."

"Quel' _dorei_ ," she corrected him swiftly; her voice was sharp as a lash. Immediately, the fragile camaraderie was shattered. She drew herself up with stiffened pride, as if she were wearing silk and gold rather than a sodden saddle-coat. "And we are no such things now. Call us nothing, if you would address us at all."

He surrendered to her with a shrug. "As you wish. I knew of your kind in the wars, but I was never able to speak to an elf directly. We were all too busy back then." Wasting no time, he looped the reins of the  sledge on top of the furs, and began to undo the stiﬀ lacings on one of the supply bags. The sky was already shadowing over again, warning of foul weather to come. "There isn't much time before the next storm," he said, breaking the gingerly hostile silence. "I've passed through this  territory on more than one occasion, and the weather rarely lets up for long. Winterspring is a dangerous land. We must salvage what we can of your animals."

At his words, the elf recoiled visibly, curling her lip in revulsion. "I won't _eat_ them," she sneered. "I'm not so desperate as to become a _barbarian._ "

Granden regarded her steadily. "We are many hours from Everlook, even on horseback. Between us and safety are numerous wild beasts who are all quite hungry, and better able to manage this storm than we by far. Even ignoring them, there is the cold to consider. Your steeds  are already dead. Their meat will do better in our bellies than a bear's. At least one of us will survive this way when the blizzards come and cut us off from town. Come on."

With ruthless practicality, he ﬁt action to words. He worked alone; the elf did not move to aid him as he took a set of knives across each corpse, stripping feathers from skin. He packed the bird-ﬂesh in snow, leaving splotches behind that turned the ground to slush. The snow stuck to the warmer meat and crystallized, oozing ﬂakes as pink as the innards of a salmon. Granden ignored the sight grimly, wrapping the meat in the waterproofed leathers he normally kept for carrying spare ﬁrewood. There was barely enough material. He was forced to double up as best he could, ﬂicking away stray splinters as he searched the packs for oilcloth and twine.

He clustered the wrapped packages of birdmeat together just inside the entrance of the cave where they would stay cold, selecting one wadded handful oﬀ the top as an afterthought. The cavern was a crude shelter; more than one creature had bedded down in it as necessity permitted, and a few scattered clumps of fur remained from its last inhabitants. They stank of musk, the rancid odor made subtle by the frigid temperatures. _Furbolg,_ Granden realized, turning over a matted patch of brown hair and ﬁnding thumb-sized wooden beads beneath. Unlike the hawkstriders, there were no signs of recent violence attached; the fur was from sheddings, as best he could tell.

At least, there was no blood.

Practicality overrode any luxury for suspicion. Now that he  was out of the battering winds, Granden's ears had begun to thaw, aching as they gradually returned to life. He pinched them to  encourage bloodﬂow. "We'll have to get a ﬁre started. It'll warm us, and keep a few of the more hostile animals away. I'll share my ﬁrewood, but I have to ask -- why did you not build one for yourself?"

The woman had followed him into the cave, trailing along at a careful distance. When he addressed her, she sank to  the ﬂoor, huddling into her makeshift blanket. The fabric tented around her shoulders as she drew her knees tight to her chest. "I couldn't get a ﬁre going," she muttered, her gaze ﬁxed upon the ground. "I can make things burn, but I can't make them last."

He offered an encouraging smile; it felt misshapen from the cold, as if the nerves in his face had taken on frostbite already. "You're in luck then. It seems the furbolg are gone for today. If you'd ended up anywhere else, who knows what you might have found for company?" Setting down the single package of meat down, Granden steeled his nerves to brave the weather once more. He ducked out of the brief shelter with the fur ruff of his hood drawn high, laying hands on the reins of the sledge and hauling it in, along  with the stash of ﬁrewood. The bulk of the sledge lessened the wind scraping at the entrance of the cave; with it wedged in place, he could ﬁnally start to hear himself think.

"How did you get here?" he asked as he labored to turn the sledge sideways, blocking out more of the winds even as they began a fresh round of howling.

"Like everyone else. Through bad luck." She  had slouched further into the blanket while he had worked, until only the tips of her ears peeped out. Her voice was muffed and sullen. "I'd heard there was a tunnel that could lead us to safety out of the northern arm of the Felwood, but it was infested by furbolg. They all took my intrusion as a threat. One, I could have handled -- two or three would have been a snap. There were  dozens."

"So you ran."

The blanket lumped itself around her hands as she balled them into ﬁsts against her chest. "Better than to be overwhelmed by beasts. I could not scale a mountain. The kaldorei would not lend me wings."

Granting her the mercy of personal space as he retreated back to the sledge, Granden busied himself with the vital task of keeping them both alive throughout the night. Now that he was in closer proximity, he could see that the elf was shivering badly: tight, spasmodic jerks of her shoulders, tremors rippling through her muscles  despite her self- control. Though he was better prepared for the weather, the storm had worked its way into his bones as well; he could feel the woodenness in his joints when he tried to move his ﬁngers, the gloves heavy on his hands as iron shackles.

The sling of ﬁrewood was retrieved and pulled open as carefully as possible. With satisfaction, Granden discovered that all his care in wrapping his supplies had paid off: the sticks were untouched by the weather, dry instead of damp. He stacked them with ease, notching branch to branch, using only what he judged would be necessary to warm the crude chamber. The deeper reaches of the cave were better insulated, but further away from ventilation, and would be out of sight of the sledge and the hawkstrider meat.

Wood and wadding in place, Granden ﬂicked open the lid of the tinderbox that held the charred linen cloth that would nourish the ﬁrst sparks. Experience had eased the painstaking task of coaxing results from the ﬂint. Even so, the blunt metal ﬁle slid like a ﬁsh through his stiff ﬁngers until he could get a better grip on the handle. "The furbolgs have reason to be mistrustful," he said aloud as he worked. A few sparks leapt and died, missing the tinder. "I hear tell they guard the path to a hidden grove, a sacred haven of nature. I spoke with one of them once, a few seasons past -- "

"You did?" The elf uncoiled her legs in surprise. Her feet slid out from under the blanket like pale ﬁsh; the jeweled slippers that were revealed had been worn to threads. "How is that possible? They're wild brutes. I didn't expect they'd be _capable_ of speech."

Another scrape of the ﬂint, and a spark kindled the linen. The ﬁre  was slow to start, but Granden blew on it carefully until the tiny blaze was strong enough to survive on its own, ﬂickering through its  cage of twigs. Its presence ﬂung illumination through the cave, stripping away the mercy of plain shadows. Stark light turned the elf's face gaunt and disturbed the silhouettes they both cast, stretching arms and shoulders into hulking blobs. Granden did not give in to the temptation to throw all the wood on at once, arranging the logs so that they would smolder at a more easily-controlled pace. "It takes time to earn  their trust," he explained as he adjusted a handful of twigs, shifting ﬂuidly from topic to topic, "but I consider it a fair trade for unhindered travel. Once this ﬁre is stable, it should last us all night. There's a shaft in the roof of the cave that will draw the smoke out for us, so we should have little fear of smothering. Still, it's not the best. It will have to do."

Finished with his grave pronouncement, Granden moved on to the next concern. One of his supply packs disgorged a ﬂat iron pan, dented and nicked in silent testament to long campaigns on  the road. He ﬁlled it with fresh snow from the growing storm, wedging it among the ﬁrecoals to melt. Baking in the heat, the ﬂakes crumpled, running together into water. Bubbles gathered on the bottom of the pan and trickled upwards. The elf gave him no words; Granden provided  none of his own. The water steamed and slowly began to boil.

His questing ﬁngers rummaged again through the upper pockets of the pack, ﬁnding two shallow cups and a battered tin. The slim rectangle turned easily in his hands, snapping open with a pair of dull clicks. The cotton wadding inside was dry; the waterprooﬁng of the leather slip had done its work, protecting the herbs inside from rot. Filling one  of the cups, Granden pinched a few crumbling leaves into the scalding water, and then -- with deliberate slowness in his motions so that she could study him for trickery -- he added a similar amount to the second. As expected, she did not even touch the cup that was offered to her, watching as he picked his own up and drank a bracing sip of the hot water, steeling himself against the temperature.

Her gaze tracked his hands as he set the cup down, and then jumped  to his face -- searching, he assumed, for signs of poison. After a moment, it registered with her that he was watching her back; she started guiltily, and sent her ﬁngers to drift in the steam of her tea.

"I suppose I should thank you for helping us." She stopped, then forced herself on, the words short and halting. "I haven't even given you my name yet."

The patchwork furs of Granden's thick cloak rustled as he shrugged. "I assumed you would get around to that when and if you felt ready." No novice to the bait and lure of conversational warfare, he ﬁshed for reassurance. The water had scalded the roof of his  mouth and the lining of his throat; his tongue felt rasped. "You have nothing to fear from me. I am a paladin," and he did not miss her ﬂinch at the word, "but one fallen so far out of practice that he's of little value now."

His attempt at comfort backﬁred. The woman's eyes narrowed instantly at his claim. "I should have known you were trouble. Don't assume that I'm defenseless," she gritted out. Her attention traveled back to his hands. There was a small, dead spot on the tip of his right index ﬁnger where the nerves had been scarred long ago, and Granden had picked up the habit of worrying at it with his thumb -- an absent, repetitious twitch that implied a nervousness he did not feel. When he caught her staring, he stopped.

With language quickly failing to bridge the gap between them, and only the weapons of body gestures left, Granden chose to hold his ground. He watched her with the curiosity of one with nothing to fear: remotely, with vague interest but no overwhelming  desire to chase down an answer. In turn, she presented hallmarks of nervousness, of hesitation -- reactions that implied a fragile vulnerability, save for her face with its wary, defensive gaze. She was an opposing pole to his own stability, wound tight enough that tension seemed to glimmer on her skin.  He was a solid counter to that nervous energy, unworried by her lightning-quick shifting of tempers that intermingled manipulation and honesty so well that he was not certain how much of her behavior was a lie, and how much was true desperation.

Finally, the woman took a deep breath, straightening up her spine like the frontmost pillar of a fortress. Her thirst won out. She picked up the cup.

As soon as she braved a sip, she grimaced. "Faugh! What's this made out of?"

"Silverleaf."

She pulled a face, like a cat sticking out its tongue after biting into a stinkbug. "Small wonder it tastes like drinking grass." Another delicate wrinkle of her nose, and then she took a second drink, and a third. Steam curled around her cheeks. Her throat worked with an urge to survive that betrayed all efforts at pride. Granden observed how quickly the tea was beginning to disappear, and then stood up to ﬁll the pan with more snowmelt.

"I take it that you're familiar with the plants," he offered amiably when he returned, coaxing at the glimmers of conversation as carefully as he had worked on the ﬁre. "Perhaps you could  help me. I came looking for icecap. It has small blooms, clusters like pearls being split open with a knife. I hear this land is the only place where it can be found."

She sniffed. "It's not. I've seen them growing elsewhere."

"Oh?"

Confronted, the woman sank back into her blanket. "Nowhere important now," she muttered. "Nowhere you could reach."

Her cup was empty, he noticed; the snow in the pan was continuing to simmer. Leaving the water in the coals, Granden retrieved another pack from his sledge. What glimpses he had seen of her robes had been of silk that would not shelter the body underneath from harsh weather. The interplay of conversation had gone on long enough; any more delays would only invite harm as Winterspring's temperatures continued to crash.

Without ceremony, he hauled the cover of the pack open, spilling fabric across the ﬂoor. Tunics and cloaks tumbled out. "Here. These will be warmer than that scrap you're using." He lumped the clothes on top of each other, not hesitating at the ﬂash of a golden lion's head as he  added a blue tabard to the mix. Alliance or Horde -- factions did not matter against a storm. "You need to change your layers. Circulation of your blood is vital in these conditions. Warm blood from here," he tapped his chest, "will save your ﬁngers and toes. And your layers shouldn't be tightly wrapped. Let the warm air stay between them, so you have some insulation."

The advice was poorly received. The elf scowled again, even as her attention was drawn towards the pile of furs and leathers. She made small, stiff jerks of her head to shake her hair away from the sides of her face. "How does a _paladin_ know how to dress in this weather?"

"Stratholme in the winter. You don't ask a warhorse to help you cart ﬁrewood." Though he did not need to stand to grant her privacy, Granden pushed himself to his feet and turned his back. His spine prickled. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of fabric as she searched among the offered clothes; he could not determine if they disguised the hiss of a drawn blade.

The outlines of her hands danced over the far walls of the cave, changed by the ﬁrelight into monsters. "You have a warhorse? Where?"

A warm chuckle broke free; Granden shook his head. "He's worn barding for long enough -- I don't want to burden him more if I can help it. I was ﬁrst given him ten years ago. Five, before the last war. We were both younger then. Now it takes him a little bit to hear my whistle, and I try to not stir him from his warm stable." Her silhouette  straightened; he glanced away from its curves, towards the stones near his feet. "Today, he is resting in the overpriced stables at Everlook, and I will let him grow fat for a while. Are the clothes any better for you?"

Buckles rattled, and then stopped. "I think so."

Encouraged by the cessation of noise, Granden turned, keeping his gaze cast aside in the event that she was not ﬁnished. When no indignant yelp resulted, he ﬂicked his eyes up. Swathed in oversized layers, the elf was swamped like a child in adult clothes, wrapped in rough hides and a cloak with a hood that puddled oﬀ her shoulders. Her hair was the color of a peach just past ripening; it lent a warm hue to her skin, the tone brought out by the contrast of raw leather and grey furs. The ﬁrelight crawled in shadows over her face.

She spread her arms awkwardly, displaying the borrowed threads with obvious discomfort. He measured how easily her arms were hampered, and then gave an approving nod. Her scowl was signiﬁcantly less pleased. "I can't possibly ﬁght in these if I'm attacked."

The corner of his mouth tugged upwards. "Then let's try not to get attacked."

Her response to that was an undigniﬁed roll of her eyes. When she still did not elaborate on her purpose, he chose to pursue the second mystery. "You've mentioned an 'us' twice so far in passing. Did you have another with you?"

She pressed her lips together, hard enough that they paled, the corners turned down like petals on a wilting ﬂower. "Faix. My brother."

  


* * *

  


The wick guttered twice before it caught.  Sacriﬁcing precious oil to ﬁll the lantern higher, Granden could not banish his sense of unease at the omen; the coil of tightly-braided cotton was well-soaked from use, and it rarely refused the ﬂame. When it ﬁnally kindled on the third attempt, he cupped the lantern in his hands until he could trust it to stay burning.

The woman directed him further into the narrowing conﬁnes of the cave, her steps ﬂagging beside him, unwilling to lead. The cavern was shallow; the ﬁrelight did not abandon them entirely as the walls wound into a tunnel, though the illumination dwindled to a trickle. As the cavern rounded out and came to a stop, Granden frowned.  There was no evidence of the woman's brother -- no second elf waiting for them, alive or dead.

Then the woman lifted her hand, and pointed at a dark lump that lay pressed against one wall.

There, every possible length of fabric she must have been able to spare had been piled together against a cranny at the back of the cave.

Saddlebags, blankets, cloaks and bedrolls and clothing -- the whole mass resembled a patchwork rag that had been wadded into a crack, stuffed tightly into the ridges of the stone.  It was, Granden realized, how she had probably thought to survive the bout of bad weather: by building a cocoon and hoping the preserved heat would last until dawn, and then the next dawn after that and then the next, until the storm died ﬁrst or she did.

Her brother's bed could  have been shelter enough -- but without the aid of a ﬁre's heat nearby for protection and for warmth, it  could just as easily have been a tomb. If Granden had been left ignorant, he never would have thought to check for another refugee. There were a hundred reasons for the woman's deception by omission. Granden exhaled slowly, accepting none of them. "Let's have a look at him."

Handing the lantern to her, Granden knelt by the small nest of fabric, keeping one hand splayed to the side in case of trouble. He left his gloves on, sacriﬁcing sensitivity of touch in favor of the safety an extra layer might provide. Nothing dug its way out to greet him. Tentatively, Granden tugged the blankets apart, unpeeling them one by one, careful not to simply ﬂing the coverings aside and waste the body heat they had accumulated. Rather than rummage blindly through the mass, he ﬁshed for the opening for fresh air that he assumed would be present; no matter how deep the elf's brother might be buried, any living creature would still need to breathe.

Only a few layers were pushed aside before Granden's ﬁngers met ﬂesh. Even though he expected that something  would be underneath, he tensed in surprise before he could stop himself. The body he touched did not react. The muscle was not soft  with the betrayal of decay; neither did it ﬂinch away from contact. It lay completely docile, pulsing only with the shallow rhythm of lungs being ﬁlled and emptied in a rapid beat.

Granden hesitated a moment and lifted the ﬁnal blanket.

Exposed to plain sight, the elf was less intimidating than the monstrosity that Granden had begun to imagine. Like his sister, Faix was slight of build, with hair that tangled in red-tinted strands. His features were ﬂatter than hers, barely hinting at the common ancestry of a sharp chin. Bathed in the lantern's ﬂickering glow, the elf's skin was pallid, almost waxen but for an undercurrent of livid crimson -- as if he were a candle whose tallow had been mixed  with jam and forced to burn from the inside.

The light jerked; the metal hood of the lantern clattered. A glance to the side explained the cause. The elf-woman had drawn back when her brother had been revealed, as if she had not been certain of what Granden would ﬁnd -- and, to judge from her hunched shoulders, Faix's current state had not reassured her either.

Warned by her skittishness, Granden drew off one of his gloves, allowing only his ﬁngertips to come in contact with the man. The heat that met his touch felt as if it radiated deep from some core ignorant of the winter around it, like a coalpit that simmered through rain. Faix's skin was moist with sweat. If Granden had to guess, he would blame a simple fever. A strong one, to be sure -- but nothing worse than that to the paladin's limited senses.

He checked Faix's brow again to measure the illness, feeling how the man's skin was already beginning to cool when exposed to the air. Unable to properly regulate his body temperature, the elf would be vulnerable to taking a chill. The very fever that roasted Faix now would leave him all too weak against the cold. "He'll need ﬂuids," Granden announced, straightening up and tugging his glove back on.  "The silverleaf should be good for another dose. Could you ﬁll a cup and allow it to steep?"

Instantly, the woman took advantage of the opportunity to escape, her threadbare slippers whispering over the stones -- quickly enough that she took the lantern with her before she caught herself. Though she reversed course swiftly to remedy her mistake, she did not come close enough to hand the lantern over to Granden, choosing instead to wedge it between the nearest rocks that would provide support.

He watched her retreat a second time, waiting until her presence was only a memory before turning back to the prone elf.

"Faix, was it?" he murmured to the unconscious man, taking advantage of the opportunity to wonder about a situation that was beginning to unravel past any semblance of innocence. "What happened to you?"  


* * *

 

He returned to the front of the cave with little more information than when he had gone back. Faix had not woken up despite Granden's best efforts; the paladin had woven what little Light he dared when he could not predict the results. There had been rumors in all the taverns that the high elves had begun to dabble in darker sources of power -- but rumors were wild ever since the Third War, and it was impossible to believe even a ﬁfth of them before running into contradictions. Still, Granden heeded caution. Battleﬁeld scars had taught him not to take anything at face value.

The elf woman watched him with renewed wariness as he settled back down beside the ﬁre, each of his motions attracting her attention as surely as a lodestone seeking out metal. He took care not to move out of the range of her immediate vision, clearing his throat and rustling his cloak as needed to warn her. Remaining calm, Granden rummaged through the supplies, and reluctantly tackled the issue of dinner.

Reﬁlling the pan with snow, Granden turned to the options at hand. He cooked the hawkstrider meat over the ﬁre, letting the water serve for a crude broth, ﬂavored only by the fat of the birds. Even that much was scant; the meat had not been allowed to drain, and clots of blood were dissolving in the pan, turning the liquid brackish. The smell was worse.

The darkest blots were becoming slow clouds  that eddied in the center of the pan. He skimmed them oﬀ the top and set them aside into his own portion, knowing how foul they would taste. He took more care with the woman's share, trying to strain the broth and pick out the cleaner- looking pieces of meat. "Eat if you can," he advised her gently. "It  will help."

She stared helplessly at the bowl he presented, her lips twisting in disgust.

Having little enough cookware to spare, Granden  shifted to a cup, digging for herbs and only coming up with a small satchel that felt half- empty when he pinched it. "These should help with your brother's fever," the paladin explained, keeping his tone neutral. "He should not be traveling in these conditions. He's gravely ill -- he needs the services of a professional healer. And even though the storm will have shielded us from most predators, they will arrive one way or the other. You're not too far off track from Everlook. I can help guide you back there in the morning."

To his surprise, she drew back from the offer, shaking her head. "No."

"Then you risk the life of your brother." The bird meat was starting to shred in the pan as Granden continued to stir the water, poking at the chunks of ﬂesh with a knife. "If it's the integrity of your wallet you're concerned about, then rest assured -- the goblins here make a fortune from selling yeti fur to pad travelers' cloaks, and a dead customer is a non-paying one. It's in their best interests for you to survive, so you should listen to them. They can ﬁnd any care you need."

" _No_ ," she insisted. "I have business here to ﬁnish ﬁrst. My brother and I _both_ do," she clariﬁed swiftly, hooking a lock of her hair back behind an elongated ear, her ﬁngers darting afterwards to hover across her throat as if to protect the root of her voice. "It's  a matter of survival. Couldn't you lend us a horse? You were a paladin once. You all get given things freely by your church. Don't you have one spare?"

The urge to refuse her request was  immediate; Gran did not ignore it.  He pointedly did not mention the lumps of ﬂesh in the leather wrappings that were the remains of the elf's  additional hawkstriders. "I only own the one, I'm afraid. And if it's a long journey by foot, then it's kinder to leave him at the stable." Flecks of meat swam in the thin broth; he shook the spice pouch twice, dusting the cup with a scattering of herbs that ﬂoated on the surface like black powder. "Breaking the crust on the snow to give him decent footing would take time, but not doing so would be painful to any equine. If your task is that vital, I can help you for a time. I'll be in this area for a little while longer anyway. How does that sound?"

Predictably, the woman took her time to consider the offer, pursing her lips; how much was pretense and how much was honest trepidation, Granden did not know. But her nod came sooner than expected, and when it did, it was sharp and decisive. "Agreed."

Tugging the spice pouch shut, Granden tossed it onto his supply pack. "It's settled, then. We can lay the course tomorrow. Though if we intend to travel together, I'll have to call you something," he reminded her pragmatically. "Whether you prefer a nickname over a true name, it's up to you."

She hesitated. The ﬁre crackled.

"Belamine," she offered up at last. The syllables were clumsy, stiff and disorganized in their pronunciation. He could read her reluctance to share them as brightly as the colors in the ﬁre. "Belamine Dawnsear."

Lie or lack of trust, he did not allow it to concern him. He had  already grown accustomed to her suspicions; it would have surprised him more if she had been careless with her identity, as she had been  with nothing else. "Eat your ﬁll," he suggested, waving towards the pan with his knife. "I'll see what I can do about your brother."

The cup had ﬁnished brewing, mixing thin broth with  herbs that clustered like duckweed along the rim. By any count, Granden could not have said that it smelled appetizing; starvation and illness  both had a way of swaying a ﬁnicky stomach, and one of the two might convince Faix to drink. Over his other arm, he slung a pair of thick blankets that he hauled off the sledge, double-stitched and lined with fur that had been sewn into insulating pockets designed for winter travel. Though he did not pack his sledge with the expectation of providing for strangers, Granden had made it a habit to prepare for calamity. He could go with less bedding for a night if he had to.

He could not guess what manner of infection Faix was attempting to ﬁght off. There was no smell of rotting ﬂesh from an injury, but it was difficult to pinpoint a scent in the chill air, particularly around the fragrance of unwashed bodies. Common illness alone might  have explained the fever, but he could not imagine how Faix might have traveled so far into Winterspring before it struck -- unless the onset was so sudden that neither of the elves had noticed signs of weakening. That prospect, Granden dismissed immediately. If it was one quality that Belamine lacked, it was not perception.

If Faix had been stricken with a disease, then only time would reveal its nature. If it was another type of madness, then Granden did not know if it could spread.

Belamine's behavior was different matter. Only the cruelest  traveler would refuse aid to another adventurer down on their luck; she would have known that, and should not have had to play to his sense of charity once she had realized he was not the type to extort the helpless. Outright seduction would have been crude. Belamine couched her attempts as stubbornness and requests for aid; she showed vulnerability and pride together, challenging him with barbed hints that caught at his curiosity, luring him along as a fox might bait a mastiff before vanishing.

Yet if she hoped for a stranger who would be easily swayed by physical charms, then she had encountered the wrong one. It had  been a long time since Granden had been overwhelmed by a blush and the ﬂutter of a skirt. He had made his fair share of mistakes when there had been time enough to make them; he had learned his lessons well.

He let the thought humor him as he knelt by Faix's cloth cocoon, sliding the blankets off his arm. "Your sister is artful with her ploys," he murmured, ﬂipping back the top covers and feeling for the elf's thin wrists to check for a pulse. "I wonder if she's half as fragile as she pretends to be?"

The question was never answered. As Granden  pulled back the last layer, he was shocked by the virulent glow that seeped out. Faix was awake this time. His eyes were slits of cold ﬁre: a more vivid green than his sister's, brilliant as an emerald or a vicious ichor. He grabbed at Granden's hand, ﬁngers clumsy but strong as they wrapped around the paladin's wrist.

Granden startled, freezing himself and his own reﬂexes before he could drop the cup of broth, going solid as a stone. He refused to ﬂinch at the pain of Faix's grip. The elf's fever buzzed at him; now that Faix was conscious, the air seemed to hum with a _wrongness_ , a thrum that had nothing to do with the raging storm outside.

Faix cracked open his mouth, whispering frantically even as his eyes slid closed again. "Stop her," he hissed. " _Stop_ her... she has to _share_..."  


* * *

 

They broke camp before noon the next day; even so, the glare of the sun was already painful, branding the inside of Granden's eyelids with rainbows every time he blinked. He had learned nothing else from Faix before the elf had lapsed back into fever dreams. What little broth he had managed to force down the elf's throat had been painstakingly administered, delivered in a trickle to keep from choking the man. It had been impossible to determine if Faix's health had responded to the rough herbal draught; the overall temperature in the cave had continued to drop steadily, mirroring the progress of the storm and making Faix's fever seem all the worse.

But there was a prickle of energy that seemed to linger in the cave all throughout the night. It had not ebbed even after Granden had left Faix, untangling himself from the elf's desperate touch; it suffused the air like bitter incense, mixing with the smoke of the ﬁre until Granden could not breathe without swallowing the smell.  Worst of all, there was an insidious quality to the sensation, a pervasiveness that slipped in underneath Granden's conscious mind and burrowed into his nerves. It was familiar. He could not pinpoint why.

If Belamine had noticed anything, she had given no sign.

Granden had taken to sleep eventually, offering Belamine the bedroll he normally used and remaining wrapped inside his own cloak for  warmth. He did not force himself to stay awake all night, but neither did he close his eyes right away; rather, he sat with his back  against one of the jagged stones that lined the ﬂoor, turned towards the cave mouth, automatically taking up the duty of watching for predators. With  the storm raging, some creatures might attempt to seek shelter in the den -- and would not care for company. If the true threat was already inside the cave, then Granden would not be any better prepared by facing one way  or the other during the night.

Belamine had shifted the bedroll until the ﬁre was at an angle between the two of them, behind Granden's shoulder where he had turned to watch the exit -- as he had assumed should would. To leave the light between them would have been the choice of a traveler who sought as much warmth as they could glean from the ﬂames, preferring to stay at the furthest point away from the cave's exit. It also would have blinded them from a clear view of the person on watch. Belamine had chosen the route of caution; she had calculated angles and glare, and positioned herself accordingly.

Granden's sleep was full of whispers, licking along the edges of his hearing. When he woke, the Dirge had quieted. The storm had gone to rest.


	3. Chapter 2

As the morning slowly warmed, Granden melted more snow, letting the ﬁre do its work as he packed hawkstrider meat and blankets onto the sledge. When he returned, he discovered Belamine  trying to wash herself with the steaming water. She had appropriated a length of runecloth from one of his supply packs, and was dipping it into the pan, scrubbing her face and arms and leaving pink streaks where her blood had ﬂushed.

When he let his boots scrape against the ﬂoor to alert her, she jerked upright and stared at him deﬁantly. One drop slid down the side of her cheek, tracing her throat before vanishing into the neckline of her cloak.

He held her gaze only long enough to see her jaw tense as she inhaled; then he set down the straps that he normally used to help him haul bulkier loads on the sledge. "We don't have that much wood," he cautioned her. "And hot water may feel good now, but when it cools, it will sap more of your body heat with it."

She dipped the end of the runecloth back into the pan. "I would rather have the vanity of being able to recognize myself -- even if I have to suffer for it -- than to survive at the price of losing my self-identity."

"Not washing will not kill you," he said gently.

She stopped scouring her exposed skin, the wet runecloth dripping dark lines down the front of her robes. "It reminds  me of times when hot water was not a luxury," she retorted. "Sometimes I need that reminder."

Unwilling to quarrel so early in the day, Granden gave the pan one last glance before he gave up on the notion of tea. Reaching up, he undid the lacings at the base of his collar that kept  his hood pinned shut against the weather. With the ﬂaps open, he pulled the hood down, feeling a cold wave of air rush in to surround his exposed face; he could sense Belamine's gaze on him as she was forced  to reevaluate her options at the sight. He could guess why. Unlike the elves with their timeless mystery, Granden showed his age, with four decades' worth heavy on his bones. The mouse-brown pelt of his hair was too light to show the grey, but he lacked the raw vitality of youth, with deep lines around his mouth and eyes as if a potter's ﬁnger had drawn  him out from clay. His beard was getting shaggy. Granden's skin was weathered from two wars; he was older, he assumed, than what she'd hoped, older than an ignorant novice who might be manipulated by the allure of the exotic.

Judging from the minuscule narrowing of her eyes before she recovered her poise, he was not incorrect.

Before dragging the last of his packs to the sledge, Granden retrieved a palm-sized dish of ointment from one of the pockets, passing a ﬁnger's daub over his mouth and nose before offering it to Belamine. To her credit, she only hesitated for a moment before dipping her hand and applying the substance to her own lips. As the cracked tissues were soothed by the ointment, she scooped up another dollop, sacriﬁcing ﬁnickiness in exchange for comfort -- and then a third, slathering on the soothing balm that would protect her skin from the chaﬁng winds.

Granden left her with the jar.

Outside the cave, Winterspring's mountains were painted with a fresh layer of white. Ice and snow mixed together in a glaze  that shimmered like glass. The sunlight reﬂected with all the intensity of Blackrock lava. As Granden had expected, the gutted corpses of the hawkstriders had been buried by the storm that had raged overnight. The mounds where they lay revealed no sign yet of the grisly truth beneath; given time and scavengers, that would change. Eventually, there would not even be bones.

When Belamine exited the cave, she threw up a hand over her eyes; as Granden moved closer to arrange the hood of her cloak over her face, he could hear her make a small noise of pain at the light. She stood cringing under his hands until he got her hood lowered in place.  Even then, she did not venture out towards the sledge, but lifted her hands up to her face, cupping ﬁngers protectively over her eyes to block out the glare.

He held full measures of sympathy for her pain: his ﬁrst few trips to Winterspring had left Granden pawing at his eyes, struggling to keep them open as they watered at the brilliance. He did not travel to the northlands often enough to invest in goggles; nor could he understand the engineering required for the more complex varieties of eye protection that might have dampened the sun. He had nothing to offer her save silence as she fought to adapt.

Allowing Belamine time to adjust to the conditions, Granden turned to the ﬁnal task that remained before they could depart. Bringing the lantern back to the rear of the cave, he sorted through Faix's bedding, yanking additional layers of clothes onto the man as they came to hand. With Faix unconscious, the chore was awkward; Granden could do little more than swaddle the elf with cloaks and pants, tugging on oversized socks and gloves.

The question of the Dawnsears' supplies was answered  over the course of his efforts; as Faix was unearthed from the  tangle of blankets, Granden found a few small satchels that had been embroidered with red and gold. They were woefully small, low on rations -- or so Granden assumed, for Belamine had not offered any of her own reserves  during the night. He lifted them easily, hearing the contents shift inside the reinforced cloth. Something rattled.

Resisting the urge to search inside, Granden stacked the bags in Faix's limp arms, and kept his focus on his work.

Hauling the elf like a roll of lumpy carpet, Granden  set Faix down between the packs on the sledge, covering the makeshift cradle with canvas and straps to keep everything in place. In the full light of day, the elf's color was only a little improved -- either he was paler than Granden expected, or else Faix had lost strength over the course of the night. That, or the lantern had lent an illusion of false crimson to Faix's complexion, and the candle's ﬂame had tricked Granden into thinking the man's skin was redder than it actually was.

The sledge took the added weight without protest. It had been crafted from antler and bone, lashed together by ribbons of hide that had been soaked in oils until they had gone supple enough to ﬂex without tearing. The entire contraption was long enough to ﬁt a downed elk, and wide enough that the runners could slide over the snow on either side of Granden's footprints when he dragged it. None of the pieces were nailed together; the stress and fracture could have encouraged cracking in cold temperatures, causing the bracings to shatter under improper conditions. The straps could be buckled snug, but loosened in an instant to keep Granden from being pulled over the edge of a cliff should the sledge tip and fall.

It  was smaller than the sledges meant to be drawn by animals, with  only a shallow railing on either side, and a framework for a hood.  On it, leather could be strapped to form a protective canopy, angled so that the snow would slide rather than settle in the middle. Properly used, the canopy could save a person from dying in the middle of a storm; Granden had put it to that exact test on several occasions.

As Granden ﬁnished packing Faix like so much oversized luggage, he discovered that Belamine had already recovered. She was kneeling on the other side of the sledge, her cloaks and robes puddled around her like an overturned inkwell that pooled in ragtag colors from her shoulders. Her ﬁngers were running over and over across the sledge. She was, he realized, inspecting the runners.

"They're equally intact on all sides," she observed curtly as he leaned over the sledge. "What do you do when you travel to places that don't have snow? Are they enchanted to resist wear?"

Surprised that she had noticed the detail -- that the runners bore no evidence of being dragged over rocky soil, which would have left irregular smoothing on the undersides of the bone -- Granden inclined his head in acknowledgment. "It can be taken apart and carried in parts. We don't have the luxury to do so here, but would you like me to explain it while we walk?"

Her gaze came up. "Please."

They talked as they traveled, as much as Granden had breath for it. Belamine had pointed their destination to the long road that wound through Winterspring and leapt Frostwhisper Gorge, lying like a wound across the belly of the frozen land. The elf had not shared many details; she had claimed that it was Darkwhisper Gorge that would help her brother, even against Granden's protests that only demons lurked there.

On that point, she had been insistent. "The climate there is better," she had emphasized, shaking her head curtly. "And  there are other resources in Darkwhisper which should ease his condition. Once we get there, I promise you that he'll improve. We won't have to worry about carrying him around much longer."

The sledge -- burdened with the saddlebags from the hawkstriders, the new supplies and Faix's limp weight -- slid grudgingly over the snow, pulled forward with Granden in the traces. The straps felt like ﬁre around his shoulders and chest. Still, he leaned into them, angling the sledge towards available slopes, hoarding momentum as often as he could and using his spear for support. Belamine walked behind the sledge in his bootprints, between the grooves that the runners left. She did not volunteer to lighten the load by accepting a pack; her borrowed cloak and clothes whispered over the drifts, leaving serpentine patterns across the staccato pits of her footsteps.

As the sun crested and began to sink, Granden directed the sledge towards the treeline that paralleled the road, stopping at the ﬁrst grove that could serve as shelter rather than push ahead further. The forest around them had been covered thickly by the ice storm. Trees leaned towards the ground, weighed down in bows until they appeared to be paying homage to the sky. Branches bent double.  Each needle of the pine trees bristled fat with a glassy shell; each leaf was pressed inside a prison, threatening to snap.

Faix was Granden's ﬁrst concern. Though the elf's color had improved, his temperature had not. He remained hot to the touch when Granden checked him, even accounting for the trickery of the frigid air; he did not wake, and only mumbled indistinctly when his face was rolled from side to side in Granden's palms. The only consolation was that the prickling of strange energies had eased. Whether they truly had faded, or Granden had simply become accustomed to their background hum, he did not know.

With a sigh, Granden resigned the elf to another night  of rest, and unrolled the canvas from the sledge's canopy, scuffing  the ground with his foot to ﬁnd where the layers of snow ended and the earth began. The risers on the sledge would help  to keep the body heat of its travelers from sinking into the frost, though the sides had to be covered to keep the air underneath as a pocket, rather than being swept away by wind. "The ground can become warmer than you think," he explained to Belamine as they settled down to camp. Standing  beneath the largest tree in the grove, he squinted at the amount of frost it bore on its limbs. "We shouldn't take refuge directly against the cliffs, or we risk being buried by snowfalls if the mountains should become too weighty. Perhaps that's a needless fear, but the trees are good enough."

She exhaled in one long plume of mist, the air catching her breath and twisting it into fog. Perched on the side of the sledge, the elf seemed all the more delicate for the contrast she presented: a fragment of color in the middle of stained leathers and furs. The hood of her cloak  curved over her shoulders, tented over her ears like a miniature landscape. "Is Winterspring always this  _ miserable? _ "

Granden smiled up at the tree, taking the  opportunity to enjoy the simple beauty of the country around them. "Even this place has its pleasant days. You can tell, because these trees manage to ﬁnd enough nutrition in the soil to sprout, and then the strength to grow tall." He clapped a hand on the trunk, causing the tree to dislodge a brief torrent of snowﬂakes; Belamine wrinkled her nose and leaned away from the dusting. "No matter how bleak a wasteland may seem to be at ﬁrst, you can see where life manages to thrive -- if you know how to interpret it."

Belamine rolled her eyes in response. She tapped her boots against the sledge to dislodge their caking of snow, and then folded up her legs onto the blanket, laying down with her back to her brother.

In the morning, Granden woke to ﬁnd Belamine kneeling beside the sledge. He had taken the ground for his bed, arranging his blanket carefully to keep his body heat from being wasted on the snow; even so, he had slept poorly, and his joints felt as if they had been chipped from a solid block of marble. Disoriented, he blinked as the silhouette of Belamine melted into the treeline and blurred into the confused snatches of dreams that lingered behind from the night.

It was the length of her ears that distinguished her from the trees as she bent forward, engaged in the task of untangling her hair. Because of them, she was forced to brush her hair with her head canted forward in a strangely humble, vulnerable position. The comb  was long and thin; she whisked it around her ears with all the precision of a ﬂensing knife. The strands were limp with oil and ﬁlth. She grimaced when she straightened up and they touched the back  of her neck again, her ﬁngers dancing like agitated spiders between her cloak and her scalp.

"Here," he said suddenly, the word like a lump in his throat, the offer awkward. "If you use a cloth, it will keep your neck warm without chaﬁng as much."

She froze, uncertainty betraying her. "I don't know what you mean."

He moved to the  pack she had raided  earlier, gesturing for  her to face the sledge. It was her turn to watch the shadows he cast, thin as  they were across the snow. She allowed him to stand behind her, though her frail shoulders were stiff and wary. He found himself hesitating  as well. His ﬁngers were gentle enough that he had to gather her hair again and again when he reached for it, the strands slipping free of his weakened grasp.

Following the route of memory, Granden scooped Belamine's  hair against a length of mageweave, pouching the cloth and then  tying it in place with smaller strips. One wound around her forehead; the rest crossed back and forth, folding the hair underneath a sleeve of mageweave to provide for insulation without allowing it to touch her skin.

He paused before folding up the last ﬂap of cloth, letting the peach-ripe strands fan out over Belamine's shoulders, separated from her skin by the layers of mageweave. When he dropped his hands, he could still feel the silk of her hair on his wrists, like  the brush of old ghosts too sorrowed to sleep.

"You are practiced with helping a lady with her hair," she observed lightly. "Have you had much experience?"

"Once," was all he said gruffly, and did not elaborate.

She lingered by the sledge as he dug out enough wood for a ﬁre, her ﬁngertips toying with the rim of her hood. "I wish I could conjure an entire bath," she admitted as she gathered  her robes underneath herself, sitting beside the ring of ash that he drew out for a marker. "It's my brother who is better with shaping water, not me. I could heat this pan to a boil in an instant -- if I were not  _ stranded  _ here," she added bitterly, reaching forward towards the ﬁre as Granden ﬁnally got it kindled.

Her hand stroked against the outer logs. The sparks did not burn her. Tendrils of ﬂame coiled around her  ﬁngers like tiny serpents, rolling their scarlet bellies against her knuckles. They rippled as they came into proximity with her skin, rising in strength as if fueled by her mere presence.

Granden watched her coax the ﬁre higher, her lips pursing with concentration. "You feel the need to hide being a mage," he said ﬂatly. It wasn't a question.

As if she expected underlying accusations, Belamine ﬂushed. She yanked her hand out of the ﬁre guiltily. "I know  I haven't cast many spells to help. It's -- it's difficult right now. You mentioned the Third War," she blurted, shifting the focus of the conversation defensively.  "Then you know of the tragedy of the Sunwell. Without its presence, my people have been struggling. It's as if every spell drains some kind of limited resource from me, like a bowl that grows steadily dry and never can be reﬁlled. Do you know what it's like  to need something so much that it feels as if you will  _ die  _ without it?"

"Yes."

She turned expectant eyes towards him. "And?"

"You don't," he answered shortly, unpacking a half-loaf of bread and twisting a hank off.

She  accepted  the rest of the bread while  staring at him openly -- trying  to guess, he assumed, at what secret  history he might hide. He could only imagine what she had already conjectured. There had been enough implications to whet a gossip's appetite: he was a paladin, a poor one, who knew how to bind a woman's hair so that it would not inconvenience her. A paladin with loss.

A paladin who had not died.

The question now was if Belamine would ﬁnd value in asking, or if her weighed her own troubles so highly that they blinded her.

He interrupted her ﬁrst, before she could decide. Softening the stale bread with a trickle of wine, he nodded towards the sledge. "I'm surprised. You haven't asked yet if I can cure your brother with the Light."

Her reply was more wary than eager. "Can you?"

It was his turn to consider his words carefully, weighing his options of what he could safely say. Chewing the bread gave him time. "No," he oﬀered eventually, swallowing a mouthful that had turned to mush. "Some things must run their course."

Molliﬁed, she relaxed back against the packs on the sledge, the blankets tucked around her arms.

The next day covered the sun with a haze of clouds once more. Though the lack of glare was welcome, the falling temperatures were not. Granden's breath came out in choppy bursts, coating the hairs of his mustache and beard with frost. Even Belamine did not have the energy for conversation in the cold. She trudged along, head down, one hand lingering on the railing of the sledge for support.

Lost within the trance of the traveler's march, Granden found his attention snapped roughly back into place when his weight sank into a broken patch of snow. He had become so used  to the smooth, glassy drifts that the rhythm of his footsteps crunching through the frost -- a steady cadence of boots punching through the thin skin of ice -- had lulled him into a drowse, leaving him dangerously off guard. He had not noticed the tracks until literally stepping squarely into them.

Coming to a halt instantly, Granden found himself poised in the middle of what appeared to be an animal's wake. Broad paws had churned the surface of the drifts into a choppy ridge that wandered across the road, transforming pristine snowdrifts into a frozen  tempest. The direction was not constant either. Right as it began to hit the treeline, the path twisted around in a sharp hook and disappeared into the woods.

Frowning, Granden unbuckled the sledge traces, dropping them to the side as he edged backwards and studied the tracks.

Belamine took notice immediately. "What's going on?" Her voice had tightened; it rose like a mourning dove. "Why have you stopped?"

Granden squinted at the outlines, going to one knee to try and study them. The impressions were wider than his splayed hand, and much deeper than his own weight. The snow from the last storm had not covered them. "Something's been here recently," he guessed. "Not long before us, either."

Belamine's shadow oozed over the depressions like the wingspan of a carrion bird. She had circled around and was scrutinizing the marks herself. " _ Wonderful.  _ What manner of beast created  _ these? _ "

"I'm no hunter." Sitting back on his heels, Granden mentally reviewed the most likely options. "Judging from the shape, these could have  been left by a bear. Or an owlbear, or even furbolg. It's hard to tell. But whatever caused these," he added, circling a ﬁnger over a clump  of tracks that had doubled over themselves without reversing, "there was more than one. Regardless of the source, we'd best avoid them for now. They could just be animals out foraging. We don't need to invite any trouble."

Belamine pressed her lips together, choosing not to argue the issue.

Though he refused to show outward concern, Granden did not allow himself to drowse oﬀ again. At their next rest stop, he took the time to examine his spear. Properly deﬁned, it was a polearm that had been weighted with three prongs on the end, but piecemeal modiﬁcations had left it lacking. The metal shaft had been replaced long ago by oak. There was a nick in the center blade that he hadn't had time to get hammered out, and a notch near the grip that hard use had smoothed over.  There was no telling what accident might have marred the wood. The nature of time gentled almost anything. Irregularities inevitably went soft under the pressure of years.

_ Like people,  _ he thought wryly, glancing at his own companion as she sipped at mouthfuls of spiced wine. Whenever she was not walking, Belamine spent her time huddled upon the sledge, her shoulders hunched inwards. He did not know how old she was, or how elves matured; he did not know how many of her decisions were rash from inexperience, or merely calculated to appear so. Every edge of her personality was rough. In a country and an era far away from a remote wasteland -- before the Sunwell, before the war, before three dead hawkstriders in the snow -- she might have been different.

He would never know.

Despite not being in perfect condition, the spear could  hold its own. It felt comfortably familiar in his hands, though it was no shield, nor ever could it replace one. The threat of violence had poor timing. The only shield that Granden owned was back in Everlook, along with his horse. If he was absent for too long, the goblins would surely try to sell both to pay for the stable rent.

Belamine was taking her time to drain the wineskin, folding the leather between her ﬁngers like a baker might knead dough. "That weapon of yours." Her knuckles pinched the stem of the wineskin. "Is it enchanted in some way?"

"This?" Granden hefted the spear experimentally. He laughed, unable to stop himself. "This is a Peacemaker model. The Barthilas family used to favor them, a long time ago. I picked one up out of Stratholme's armory. Other than its history, there's nothing in particular to distinguish it."

She hissed under her breath, the annoyed furrow of her eyebrows painting a tense line across her features. Brieﬂy, Granden felt a ﬂare of resistance rise up inside him, meeting and mirroring her anger. Shepherding a stranger was not a task that he was typically averse to. He had run across enough unlucky travelers while out hunting herbs before. Not all of them had been grateful, or even friendly; most had thrown back resentment at his offers of help.

Normally, he could dismiss their bile with  ease. Patience was a strength he had cultivated along with his shield-arm; both  had served him in equal measure. But the nostalgia Belamine had stirred up had slowly eaten at his resolve. Emotion plucked his heart like a wire. He was tired -- he _felt_ tired, too familiar with betrayals and deceptions to want to acknowledge them anymore. He had not sworn on to aid Belamine for pay. His offer of assistance did not have established limits, and that very generosity might be what Belamine was hoping for.

But to leave Belamine now would abandon her in the wilderness without any supplies to help sustain her in the cold. It would leave Faix burning with fever in the snow. That the elves had both run afoul of something dangerous was clear. Granden could not guess how quickly Belamine might protect her brother, if it came to that. She seemed afraid of him, wary enough of his  illness that she preferred Granden to be his caretaker -- but every now and then as they traveled, he caught her checking on Faix's health.

Mulling over what little he knew of the woman, Granden found himself undecided.

Taking care of Faix was at least a straightforward challenge. Having no luxury for a ﬁre, Granden mixed snow to dilute the herbal tinctures he had available. The grass-clean smell of peacebloom wafted up to him as he tilted Faix's head carefully to feed the elf. Faix mumbled and shivered, but swallowed most of the dosage, lapsing back afterwards into the fractured peace of his dreams.

They took the rest of the day slowly, following the lone road that dared to wander towards Frostwhisper Gorge. Judging from the dimming gloom, the sun had rounded out the afternoon without bothering to show itself. The winds picked up before too long, ﬂicking limpid clumps of snow across the air, and peppering Granden's eyes with icy grains.

As he paused the sledge to study the rising cliffs, Granden  caught sight of another moment shared between the siblings.

He had peeled off the traces and tossed them aside so that he could scout ahead unhindered. When he looked back, Belamine had ventured closer to the front of the sledge. She had reached out to straighten the bunched covers away from Faix's face, and was smoothing down her brother's hair, cupping her hand against his ﬂushed cheek.

Granden hid a smile behind a fold of his cloak. The elf's unguarded gesture seemed honest. Unwilling to disrupt the moment, he turned his face forwards and ﬁxed his attention on the gorge in the distance, giving Belamine the kindness of privacy.

The arrow took him high in the arm.


	4. Chapter 3

The shot came from behind him, tearing through the thick layers of his clothing and lodging deep within the muscle near his left shoulder. The impact burned straight from his arm into his brain. He felt his weight stagger to the side, an animal's instinct to try and escape the pain.

Rather than ﬁght the reﬂex, Granden twisted, directing the motion forward. He went down smoothly to one knee in the snow, turning his ﬂank towards his attacker in order to provide a smaller target, choosing the side with the wounded arm so that he could save the one still uninjured.

Long years of experience paid off. The second arrow plunged to the right, expecting him to have dodged sideways. It buried its head in the snow, the poorly-dyed ﬂetching quivering with spent force. If Granden had followed his ﬁrst impulse, he would have earned another wound -- this one possibly lethal.

Time slowed as adrenaline rushed into his veins. He had a few precious seconds to reorient himself. With his cloak shrouding him in a leather wave, it would be harder for his  attackers to distinguish the outline of his body -- and to line up another shot that would strike ﬂesh. Despite the injury, he knew he was lucky; the wind must have skewed the quarrel so that it  hadn't impacted his spine. Fortune would not lightly favor him a second time. Out in the open, Granden was both vulnerable and alone. He could only hope that his assailants would be baited by his act to come closer, and ﬁnish him off.

He was not disappointed.

Out of the woods, three furbolgs came. The ﬁrst two were armed only with crude clubs; the third member of their hunting party carried the bow, already hanging back to line up another shot. Their fur was white, blending in with the snow, so that they seemed part of the winter itself, rising to defend the land from unwanted intruders. Their muzzles were curled in snarls.

 _Looters attracted to the sledge,_ he realized, watching the group funnel outwards to try and separate him from Belamine -- identifying, correctly, that Granden was the only one that could ﬁght back. _They must have found our tracks after the storm._

A desperate lunge brought him forward before  they could cut him off. The ﬁrst step almost sent him crashing down again; snow dragged at his boots. He pulled himself forward with the help of his  spear. Each step sent a nauseating wave of pain through him. The motion coupled with bloodloss was dizzying; he hauled his weight awkwardly around the side of the sledge, letting his left arm hang loose at his side.

Belamine was crouched down in a tight ball on the cradle of the sledge, using the railings for cover as she tucked herself behind the saddlebags. As Granden scrabbled for cover, she threw him a frantic glance. "I thought you said you were _friends_ with them!"

"These are Winterfall!" he grunted, peering around the  sledge only to duck back down again as another arrow whizzed by. "They've gone mad -- they're enemies to the Timbermaw tribe, and  to everyone else! They won't listen to reason!"

"Then _kill_ them," she snarled, yelping in panic as another arrow thudded into the side of the sledge. "Your shoulder -- "

" _Hush._ "

Closing his eyes, Granden leaned back against the sledge and forced himself to exhale. Completing a healing spell with the arrow in place would simply fuse the ﬂesh closed around the shaft, causing even greater damage when he'd have to remove it later. He had seen injuries gone wrong on the battleﬁeld before, wounds that had to be cut open again because healers had been too eager to rely on spells. He knew the consequences.

In the meantime, the muscles were in spasm. His shoulder felt like a boil that was swelling with lava. Pulling off his glove with his teeth, Granden probed the injury with bare ﬁngers, feeling the muscle tighten around the point of impact. It took all his discipline not scream with each hot ﬂare of pain. The heavy layers of his clothing had helped to lessen the arrow's forward momentum, but the point felt lodged near the joint; he would not be able to push it through cleanly.

He made a tentative attempt to move the arm again. A groan escaped him. He would not be able to parry for long with only one hand on the spear's grip.

Like it or not, he would have to remove the arrow.

In most battleﬁeld situations, another person would be nearby to provide the necessary support. The assistance was not simply for encouragement. Unlucky bleeds could kill a man before a healing spell had time to complete; if the pain knocked him witless, Granden could die from the simple inability to phrase a plea to the Light.

 _I have survived worse before,_ he reminded himself sternly. Fear paralyzed his hand anyway. His courage felt numbed by the soldier's curse: a reasonless terror that never really went away no matter how many campaigns had been endured, ﬂooding his mind with visions of crippled muscles, of torn muscle and ripped skin, of splinters insidiously working inside of his body to fester and rot. He only allowed the emotion to dominate for a heartbeat before he gripped the arrow tightly, steeled his nerve, and yanked as hard as he could along the angle of penetration.

The barb of the arrow snagged on his ﬂesh. It shredded tissues as it was wrenched backwards, loosing a gout of blood; pain exploded, making his body tremble with a cold weakness.

He ﬂung the arrow blindly away, and cried out the words of a healing incantation.

The Light answered.

Power blossomed underneath his hand, manifesting in a golden ﬂare that sought out his arm and seeped into it. He could feel the skin around the puncture tighten shut, the blood clotting into a hard knot; the pain was barely lessened and the joint remained stiff, but he could move his arm enough to bring it low on his spear. He braced the weapon in place, struggling to clear his head. The ﬁght was far from over.

In the time it had taken for him to staunch his wound, the furbolgs had clustered together. Their archer had given up on peppering the sledge with missiles and had joined  the other two; all three were moving forward together, spooked enough by the display of magical light that their aggression was erratic. They had been warned that their prey was less helpless than it seemed. This time, they would be unrelenting in making sure he was downed.

Granden could not afford to wait. With the furbolgs lured out and closing the distance, he now had  to draw them away from the sledge -- away from Belamine and Faix.

He pushed himself to his feet with clenched teeth, ﬁxing the archer foremost in his mind. The prayer for Righteousness came easily, snapped off like sparks from a ﬁre; the Light-given seal slid down his hands and glistened like a fresh coat of oil on  the spear. He did not give the furbolgs a chance to react. Charging forward, Granden brought his arms up, harrying the archer ﬁrst so that it would not be able to regain its range.

As he hoped, it lifted its bow in a  feeble attempt to block. Granden jabbed his spear out and yanked it upwards, levering it into the string; with a twist of his hips, he tangled the bow in the Peacemaker's tines in hopes of breaking it. The archer hung on doggedly. The wood of its bow was solid, and refused to crack.

Enraged by the treatment of their companion, the other two furbolgs fell upon him, clawing at his sides. A broad paw clipped him along the head. Ears ringing, feeling the archer slide away in retreat, Granden  coughed out the triggering words to release the seal's stored energy. The judgement ﬂared in a sudden explosion of power; Righteousness burst like a golden tide, lashing the nearest furbolg, and the fetid press of bear-ﬂesh fell back.

He fought to keep  their attention, to vex them enough that they would  not be distracted towards the more vulnerable targets on the sledge. Blood soaked into the leather of his cloak and  weighed down his arm. The frigid Winterspring air raked his lungs. He whirled, jabbing the triple blades of the Peacemaker towards the  furbolg that pressed him the most closely, forcing it away so that he could continue whittling away at the archer; the bow was knocked away at  last, and he narrowly missed parrying the set of claws that dove for his face in revenge.

In the midst of all the chaos, a woman's scream snatched at his attention. Frantic at the thought that another furbolg had reached the elves, Granden slammed his heel down and pivoted around, dragging his attackers with him through sheer determination.

What he saw instead froze his breath.

In her panic, Belamine had fallen against her brother on the sledge and had become tangled up in his blankets.  During her efforts not to be struck by the battle, she had woken him. Now Faix was grabbing at his sister, wrestling with her arms as she clutched her cloak protectively to her chest. His eyes blazed like twin emerald ﬁres. Fever ﬂushed his skin.

But before Granden could ﬁght free to separate them, Faix tore something away from Belamine's grasp, shouting a victorious, ragged cry. His hand rose into the air as he stretched to his full height on the sledge, out of her reach, displaying his prize clearly for an instant. Against the winter sky, Granden saw an embroidered cloth pouch no bigger than a ﬁst. The contents clicked and rattled as Faix swung it around, and then plunged his hand inside.

The sudden stink of dark energies ﬂooded the air. Faix yanked his hand out of the pouch; his ﬁngers were ﬁlled with black stones  that rippled with green lines, squirming worms of power that burned like living veins through the rock. Energy leapt from one stone to another as  Faix tilted his palm, shielding the lambent glow against his chest.

One of the stones snapped.

Power discharged as the rune crumbled to dust, oozing a sickly green mist that boiled around Faix's body. At ﬁrst, the waves seemed aimless; then the magical currents twisted in place, burrowing into the elf as if drawn into an invisible void. Faix shook his head once. When he lifted his gaze again towards the battle, it was with a restored clarity that banished any fever-haze.

For an instant, Granden saw the man that the elf might have been. Regal, commanding, conﬁdent enough to order the world itself to obey his will and expect results, Faix surveyed the chaos without any apparent fear. His traveling robes were stained; his hair was matted and dull, but the elf's ﬁngers did not tremble as he extended an empty hand forward, and spoke words that snapped blue daggers into the air.

The blizzard that poured down in response was no natural shift in weather. Laced with ice and hail, it burst full-born out of the sky above them and pelted the embankment where Granden fought, sleeting down with murderous intensity. Granden ducked away from it, turning a shoulder towards the storm to try and survive the deluge. Thankfully enough, Faix's control over the magic chose to discriminate between enemy and ally, banking its winds around Granden and leaving him with only a whisper of frost on his cloak.

The three furbolgs were not so fortunate. Sharp chunks of ice hit and splintered into razors against their fur, smothering their angry bellows. Baited by the new threat, they turned as one towards the sledge, forgetting about Granden as they focused their hostility upon the elven mage.

Granden swung his spear towards the nearest one, hoping to take advantage of their inattention. It left a crimson gash across the creature's face, ripping open the sensitive tissues of its nose. It howled, ﬂailing a splayed paw in his direction; he whirled away in time for it to only catch the hood of his cloak. When the archer tried to lift its bow again, Granden wrenched the Peacemaker around until he could pin one end down against the snow, and give it a merciless stomp of his heel. This time, he had the satisfaction of hearing the bow crack.

The furbolgs, thwarted, surrendered ground slowly as they were balked by the storm. They could not charge the sledge; Faix's magics were unrelenting, hemming them in with alternating blasts of wind and snow. Granden's spear did not give them the freedom to circle.

Finally, roaring in frustration, they abandoned their attack, and ﬂed back towards the safety of the forest.

Faix dropped his hand. The storm weakened and then faded away. Turning, he sought out Granden with his gaze. For a brief moment, his eyes locked onto the paladin's. The glow of elven blue was swallowed by entirely by green; lucid awareness shone strong, restored in full.

The moment did not last. All too soon, the elf's eyes slid closed. Faix's head tilted back. His weight swayed. He turned his face slowly and gracefully towards the sky, as if waiting for benediction from the clouds themselves.

Then, as ﬂuid as a willow tree stirred by a summer breeze, Faix kept tipping over -- until he pitched backwards off the sledge, and landed on the snow with a muffed crunch.

Belamine made a strangled cry, stiﬂing it behind  her ﬁngers. She stumbled off the sledge after her brother, tangling up her feet in the blankets in her haste and nearly toppling down as well.  She was yelling at Faix in what Granden assumed was Thalassian; the melodious syllables were garbled, choked with rage. When Granden moved forward, she ﬂinched back, scrambling away from her brother as quickly as she'd rushed to his side.

"Don't blame me for being unable to help!" she lashed out. "I warned you I couldn't cast in this _ridiculous_ getup!"

Granden did not dignify her words with a response, kneeling instead by her brother. Apart from any damaged pride for the humiliation of his fall, Faix seemed unharmed; the snow had cushioned the impact, though his shoulders were twisted at an angle that was almost certainly painful. Reaching out to straighten the elf to a more comfortable position, Granden noticed the pouch still clutched in one of Faix's hands. The embroidery had spilled open across the elf's belly, ﬂap open. Several of the runes were nestled in the folds of the elf's robes, glimmering as docilely as lost stars.

Knowing better than to touch any runes that bore signs of cracking, Granden rooted through the snow. He discarded any stones that looked suspicious, until ﬁnally scooping one up that appeared intact. Pinched between his ﬁngers, it resembled a packed coal from a ﬁrepit. A green light traced itself over the surface of the stone, outlining a letter in no language he could speak.

"Satyr runes," he mused, unsurprised. Now that he could see the source, it was a simple matter to identify the sensation that had haunted him ever since discovering Faix in the back of the cave. It had been a while since Granden had ﬁrst warred directly against fel powers, and warlocks were starting to frequent the streets of Stormwind more openly; he had found it easier to tune them out than he expected. The rune ﬂared hot as he rolled it in his palm. He dropped it in the snow without trying to hold on, recognizing the magical reaction of a connective enchantment. Familiarity must have dulled his senses; he had been blind to the nature of Faix's illness. "I see that some are bound to you already."

The warning of Belamine's approach came in the whispered crunch of snow. Then the woman was there, stooping quickly to snatch the pouch out of Faix's unconscious grip. She groped through the snow, taking up handfuls as she gathered what runes she could reach. After grabbing as many as she could, she stepped away quickly, shedding clumps of snowﬂakes behind her and hugging the pouch against herself protectively. "I was keeping them out of his reach," she claimed, jerking her chin accusingly towards her brother. "They're making him worse."

"And yet, you allowed him to complete his spells while using them," Granden countered wearily. "I didn't see you stopping  him once he started casting. Even better, you're intending to take your brother into a gorge _ﬁlled_ with _demons_ when you should be avoiding fel energies." Attempts to keep the skepticism out of his voice failed; he reached out once more in a half-hearted attempt to ease Faix's sprawl. Touching the elf's skin revealed grim news: heat had returned to suffuse Faix like a boiling pan, renewing his fever as if it had never left. Grimly, Granden wadded up the hood of Faix's  cloak to keep the snow from melting against the elf's neck.

Belamine shook her head, stuﬃng the spare runes back into the pouch. "It won't be a problem." Her voice was a harsh promise. "Everything will work out for the best. You ﬁght well," she added grudgingly, "for a paladin."

" _Paladin_ is only a word. So is _best._ " Planting his feet, Granden hefted Faix gingerly onto his good shoulder. The joint of his left one was already aching in protest; despite the healing spell that had been woven into his ﬂesh, the exertion must have started to  tear something again. He dragged Faix as carefully as he could back to the sledge, tucking the elf back among the saddlebags. Only then did Granden turn around, leaning heavily on the rail and trying to ignore the heave of his own lungs.

"Belamine," he stated, slowly and evenly, "we are taking your brother into the heart of _exactly_ what you're saying will harm him. Just how foolish do you think I _am?_ "

She ﬂushed, shifting her feet in embarrassment. "It's the only way we can help him," she insisted stubbornly. "If it's a reward you're concerned about, don't worry. I'll have more than enough to repay you with once this is over. It's just --" Breaking off, Belamine frowned, starting and stopping her words in half-formed puffs of breath. "It's just a little further. The Gorges should be coming up soon -- right?"

When he hesitated, she softened her tone. "Granden. _Please._ "

The leaf-green of her eyes was luminous in the evening light. Granden watched her struggle with her own plaintiveness. Underneath the manipulations -- and all her attempts to hide them -- there seemed to be an honest need in her voice, a helplessness that was  easier to identify the closer they came to their destination. Even if the origins were selﬁsh, the emotion itself was sincere.

He resisted only for a moment before sighing, and scrubbing a hand over his face. "Just a little, then," he  agreed. Doubt hounded him; he ignored it. "We're almost there."

The bridge across Frostwhisper Gorge had been ancient  when the goblins ﬁrst settled in Winterspring; the years had not made it any younger. But night elven craftsmen had lent their timeless knowledge to the stones, and the bridge had remained intact throughout all the marches of war, losing only a few chips along the way to show for all the lives that had crossed its arch. Far beneath, the rumbles of frost giants drifted up from the shattered ruins. Distorted by the wind and winter, their groans had the sound of ice cracking, as if some great river ﬂoe were rolling over in its frozen bed.

Before they set off again, Granden had drawn the cloak away from his shoulder, examining what remained of the damages from the furbolg's arrow. The rip had drawn closed; the muscle had  knitted together, but the skin was swollen and pink, forming a rosy blossom in the center of a mottling of bruise-bright purples. No tell-tale signs of poison or tendrils of infection stained the ﬂesh. Granden winced as he prodded it with a ﬁnger. Another infusion of Light only eased the swelling enough to allow him to strap the sledge's rigging around his chest without having to scream as he did.

 _Deeper healing,_ he decided grimly, _will have to wait._

The bridge was wide, but the winds were strong. Exposed to the full force of the storm while they crossed it, Granden and Belamine slid from side to side, struggling against gusts that fought to toss them off. With no thick treeline to obstruct it, the air was free to howl. It shrieked its rage to the sky, battering the tiny ﬁgures that crept like insects over the chasm.

With the wound in his shoulder still throbbing, it was difficult for Granden to draw the sledge. He kept his head down, forcing each step forward, and not counting how many times he was forced back.

When he ﬁnally reached the other side, the ﬁrst wave of heat struck him like the press of a large animal, rubbing against him and bringing with it the rotting smell of acrid fumes. He stopped, stumbled, and ﬁnally stood in place, panting. Around the leather straps of the sledge's rigging, his hands were cramped into place like claws. The winds had set his ears ringing; his head was numb and humming.

Belamine gave a sharp gasp of joy, slipping around him as he tried to regain his strength. She yanked down her hood, shaking out the bound wadding of her hair. Joy lit color in her cheeks.

Uncricking his hands, Granden let the reins of the sledge drop, leaning back heavily on the railing. He watched the elf-woman bask in the heat, and did not join her.

The higher temperatures of Darkwhisper Gorge had restored Belamine's spirits beyond anything he had seen in her  before. She held out her arms towards the blackened paths, her ﬁngers unfolding like the stiff legs of an insect turning towards  the sun. "Have you ever been cold for so long that you forgot what it was like to be warm?" she asked him, her gaze ﬁxed upon the blighted earth that lay ahead. "To _need_ something so much that you forgot what life was like without that craving, and all that was left of you was an emptiness -- an emptiness that deﬁned you completely, so that you never thought you _belonged_ to a world with heat again? And you turn to anything that has a chance of making you warm again, even if you know it may destroy you -- even if you can't feel it, not really. Have you _ever_ known how that feels, Granden?"

Granden felt his pulse ease in his chest, winding down from his exertions. He let his breathing slow to match.

"I know winter," he answered simply.

Enthusiasm renewed, Belamine waved a hand towards the steaming hills of Darkwhisper. Stripped bare of snow, the crags seemed to swallow the light rather than reﬂect it back; the hissing of demons leaked out of the crevices, weaving a litany of hatred that dipped and rose on the wafting green mist. None of this seemed to deter her. "I told you that everything would be answered once we arrived. Now it's time for your real help to begin. Somewhere in Darkwhisper's tunnels, there's  an imp that deigns to converse in the common tongue, and will strike bargains with travelers who can ﬁnd him. He's the one who can help me. _You_ must ﬁght through to his cave. Once we arrange an  agreement for safe passage, this will all be over."

Granden did not move. Beside him on the sledge, Faix's lungs worked in shallow heaves. Sparing a glance for the inﬁrm elf, Granden addressed Belamine with a frown. "Why do you need to negotiate for that?"

"There is no other way to survive where we must go. Even _you_ must have heard, paladin or not." Giddy with success, Belamine wrapped her arms around herself, eyes rapt upon the mountains.  "In Darkwhisper Gorge lies the path to Hyjal."

Granden's sharp bark of laughter spun her around.

"That's a myth," he told her ﬂatly. "A rumor spread by guilds and foolish travelers."

"But they _have_ seen a gate," she  pressed. "They've seen  a tunnel, blocked and guarded. Where else could it  go, _but_ Hyjal?"  When he did not soften his disdain, her expression fell.  "Granden, we _must_ do this. _You_ must do this. I can't make it through  the outer felguards without your help. If partnering with demons offends you, then don't _think_ about  it. I -- I only intend to work with them until I get what I want! Once I make it through to the remains of the World Tree, then surely there must be something there that can ﬁll my needs. We can  dispose of them after that!"

Currents of hot air plucked at them both as Belamine went silent, her eyes crestfallen. The expression was a marked change from the stiff, aloof woman that he had ﬁrst encountered, turning her nose up at a cup of tea. The difference gnawed at Granden's resolve. All of Belamine's cold elegance had given way to passion. Her words stumbled; she chose desperation, but one which was not carefully calculated to generate pity.

 _It's honesty,_ he realized suddenly. _She's not trying to hide herself._

Almost immediately, his thoughts jumped to the next point of concern, triggered to suspicion by her ﬂurry of claims. "How are you planning to buy this imp's allegiance? If these packs of yours are your only possessions, you have little to offer for such a favor. What will you bargain with? The spells that you won't cast? The satyr runes?"

Belamine stood mute, beginning to shiver despite the heat.  Then her eyes darted once towards the sledge and back again. The motion was so quick that if Granden had blinked, he would have missed it entirely.

He tracked the direction with a turn of his head, pinpointing the location  of her brother's body sprawled among the packs.

Understanding gripped him in a chilling rush, clenching its talons around his chest. Dread turned his mouth into a desert. The pieces of Belamine's plan -- scattered in implication, hinted at only in contradictions -- ﬁnally joined together in a sinister whole.

 _All this time,_ he thought. _I believed it was simply concern for her brother, but she needed him alive as a sacriﬁce._

"No," he said aloud. "You _weren't._ "

"Faix is suffering anyway!" she spat, her temper breaking defensively. "At least this way he'll die as an _elf,_ and not a foul Wretched. Doing this is for the best!"

He took one step forward; she backed off ﬁve. His voice rasped. "When did you plan on telling me?"

She shied further away, her lips full in a sulk. "I thought you would sense these things," she muttered, plucking at the  hem of her cloak with sharp, angry jerks of her ﬁngers. "The Light favors _you._ It should  have been whispering the truth in your ear this whole  time. Doesn't it give you orders that us _lesser folk_ can't hear?"

He did not yield to her derision. Nor did he stop to think about what amount of fault he might share, having helped Belamine out of the cave and to the Gorge rather than insisting on Everlook.  "No. Maybe if I were a better paladin, I could."

Rallied by the word, Belamine drew in an affronted breath, straightening her shoulders with a jerk. "That's right -- you _are_ a paladin. You're part of the Alliance that did _this_ to us." Her  anger was in  full swing now; she lifted her chin deﬁantly, bending his  words back into an argument. "Don't you _dare_ judge what we've been driven to!"

The ﬁnal accusation stopped Granden cold. He retreated past the tangle of the fallen traces, presenting Belamine with a shoulder as he turned away. "I don't."

The honesty was painful. Working his ﬁngers deep into the furs on the sledge, Granden forced himself to continue explaining. "I _don't_ know what's happened to you. I have no idea what any other person has been through in this world -- only what's happened to myself. I haven't experienced the circumstances that drove you to this fate. So I _don't_ judge you, Belamine. You're free to make the decisions that you feel you must. I make my own. And I choose to end my help here." The furs parted, revealing the wood of the Peacemaker; he picked up the spear and leaned it against the sledge. "That's all."

She stood dumbstruck, her ﬁsts opening and closing impotently at her sides, as if she expected more in the way of anger out of him -- anger or rage, something she could confront and ﬁght. But all Granden gave her was the silence of stone, as calm as when he had ﬁrst met her, unwilling to be moved by pity or by dread.

He hesitated when he touched Faix's blankets. He had carried the elf this far on his own without Belamine's assistance; in the paladin's guardianship, Faix would almost certainly receive better care. Granden had no plans to use living beings as bargaining chips. But if he took the sledge and Faix, he would leave Belamine without the shelter that the sledge provided -- or the supplies. If he left her with a pile of saddlebags, he would have to hope she could carry them all to shelter on her own. To compound the matter, bringing the sledge might lure the furbolgs once more, but he would not be able to transport Faix without it.

More importantly, Granden knew, he would be taking more than just Belamine's brother away from her. He would remove her option to decide which path she wanted to follow of her own free will. Without the potential to fall into ruin, she also would not have the potential to overcome temptation, and pick a better fate.

He hesitated, torn between what he knew most people would insist on, and what he felt.

Eventually, he lowered his eyes.

"Belamine." Granden's voice felt like a crippled bird in his chest, barely strong enough to cross the distance between them. It came out hushed against the snows. "You have lost everything else in the War. Ask yourself if you want to part with the one thing that's left."

"But my brother --"

"Is not yet dead. And if you give him time and keep him from demonic energies, he may even recover." Stern as his words were, Granden weighed them against the one comfort he could think to give. Saying it aloud would be equally cruel. He hesitated, then forged ahead. "You don't have to be alone."

She ﬂinched.

Granden did not waste time congratulating himself for striking the mark. He tucked the blankets around Faix, folding the ends in carefully to keep warm air from leaking out. The whisper of cloth and leather betrayed Belamine's approach; she circled the  sledge, watching Granden across the territory of the supply packs, arms crossed protectively over her chest. The oversized cloak was slipping around her shoulders. Fear had worked its insidious way past her bravado, reducing her to a fragile huddle.

"You can't just leave us," she blurted. "What will we do?"

He unstrapped a pack; it slid ungracefully to his feet. He nudged it aside with his boot and moved to the next. "I wish I knew."

"Gold," she said swiftly; her face was hard and horrible. "Riches beyond imagining. Anything you desire. My brother's head on a plate. What is it you _want?_ " she cried at last, when none of her offers halted his motions.

He ﬁnished unlooping his backpack and caught it by the straps as it descended towards the ground.

"Nothing."

Without looking up, he continued to speak. "I will tell the goblins in Everlook of your location. There are agents of the Argent Dawn in town who are likely experienced in these matters.  They will be able to help you both." His ﬁngers ghosted over the packs, measuring out the supplies, estimating the essentials of survival in the endlessly-winter conditions: enough for two people who would have no ability to hunt for themselves, but who would at least be in warm surroundings. He parceled out the bare minimum for his own survival, and left the rest behind with only a whisper of regret.

"I will leave you the sledge," he concluded at last, ignoring the reluctant pang in his chest at the decision; his ﬁngers glossed over the  familiar curve of the sledge's rail, savoring the craftsmanship one last time. "Remember the steps to take it apart and reassemble it safely. As long as you stay here near the heat and avoid the demons, you should have enough supplies until the Dawn comes for you."

"But you are a _paladin!_ " Belamine screamed, her face livid. "Fight these monsters! Strike them down! How can you leave us here when we need your aid? _You're not allowed to abandon us!_ "

He took a step past the sledge. The packs creaked as he hefted them onto his shoulders, leather protesting against the winter conditions.

"I told you from the start, my lady. I am not a very good one now."

The bridge was harder to cross the second time; the packs strapped to his back raised his center of gravity, and he was already weary from the ﬁrst trip. He kept his head low. A long road waited between him and Everlook, and the sun was already beginning to set.

Behind him, Belamine's wail mixed with the cry of the Dirge as it began to rise, splashing off the stones.


	5. Chapter 4

In a ﬁeld east of Stratholme, one corpse jerked and opened its eyes.

It drew breath with a shudder, rolling over; its limbs were stiff, barely obeying the commands of a groggy brain. The welt  that lay the man's arm raw stretched from elbow to wrist. The plating of his armor had been corroded by a coating of green saliva that clung in sticky ropes; the leather and chain that padded the joints had been sucked clean away by the suction of the monster that had tried to drain his blood while he was still alive. Crimson blotches had burst all over his skin. Bruises were beginning to rise in clusters. His  right wrist ached from when he'd lost his mace and had jammed his gauntlet into the creature's maw to keep it away from his face.

Despite it all, he was alive.

The soulstone had protected his spirit, but it did nothing to ease the pain. Further attempts to move dizzied his vision, nearly sending him spinning back into unconsciousness. He spared just enough energy to whisper a healing spell, feeling the tinge of poison fade, and the nausea of disease ebbing.

As Liasin ﬁnished struggling to his feet, he looked out over the bodies that lay in fresh piles around him, and then began the methodical process of calling the fallen back to life.   
  


* * *

 

"Careless," Blackwind was growling. "It should never have taken us by surprise like that. Sureshot! Why were we unprepared? Where were your hunters? Were they all  _ asleep? _ "

The units nearby bore their commander's disdain with bemused patience. They had been privy to his ﬁts of temper more than once over the years, and knew that no amount of complaining would get the wounded back on their feet any faster. Blackwind was legendary for his bluster. Only the newer recruits winced at the dwarf's ire. The veterans were already stretching their legs and checking  their armor for damages, conferring quietly together as they recovered from the failed assault.

The camp remained in disarray. Mages wove arcane enchantments to fortify their powers for the next clash, while the pair of druids moved patiently between the scattered campﬁres, checking each to make certain that restorative teas were on brew.

Liasin, by virtue of recovering ﬁrst, had also been the ﬁrst to exhaust himself. He sat with his back against a tree stump that had been blackened by disease; the puckered ridges of bark scraped against his armor every time he shifted his weight. Over two-thirds of the camp sported the same welts that he was recovering from. The remaining third suffered from mended bones and bruises. Liasin had used up all his energies on the ﬁrst set of healers; nothing he could do now would help. Instead, he toyed with a waterskin, drinking small mouthfuls at a time to keep his stomach from rebelling. Magic always left him parched.

The ﬁght had started well. Reports had circulated at Light's Hope of a massive abomination, unlike any other that had been  seen before. It stood high as a siege-tower. Its parts were stitched together from a conglomeration of hides and muscles, so that it resembled a quilt  of rotting ﬂesh that bulged along numerous seams. The crown of it was topped by a huge skull that could have ﬁt a house inside, with room for a garden in front.

Despite its stature, the behemoth had been difficult to trail. Blackwind had set hunters out tracking for days. He had not been alone. Numerous other guilds had leapt at the bounty being offered for the creature's demise -- and for ﬁrst looting rights for whatever spoils it had collected. A few guilds had been unlucky enough to encounter it by accident, and their stories had been eagerly absorbed by the Brigade's strategists, Liasin included.

The Brigade had engaged according to plan. They had lured it to the staging ground, choosing an open ﬁeld that was bordered by a line of misshapen trees on a higher elevation, giving them a vantage point to position their secondary units. They had arranged the warriors strategically, choosing the more agile Lynnae Rowenweft to take point; she had danced and darted around the Bonegrinder's feet as it had shuffed in place to try and crush her. Farion Cloudshield had served as her support, attracting the beast's attention whenever it stomped the ground hard enough to unsteady her with reverberations. There had been healers focused upon each warrior. The casters had kept their incantations ready.

The Brigade had mastered the rhythm of the creature's attacks quickly, melee ﬁghters skating back and forth in coordinated tandem, spells beating around them like birds with molten wings. Like well-oiled clockwork, the Brigade whittled the abomination's defenses down, with no losses other than a few exhausted mages that had resorted to wands while they regained their breath. One of the warlocks  had even started to joke.

Complacency had been their downfall.

As Lynnae lunged back in to deliver a stinging thrust of her sword, the giant had stiffened, freezing in place. It opened its arms with a roar; the stitches of its stomach burst open with a sound like wet sandpaper. Wriggling, man-sized leeches had spewed out, pouring  over the ﬁrst wave of defenders and scattering towards the vulnerable ranged camps, which had been left undefended with healers in the fore. One of the warriors had shouted frantically to attract the attention of the nearest batch of creatures -- only to have them swarm over him in  seconds, leaving his body puckered like a squeezed orange that dripped tissue instead of pulp.

After that, it had been a rout.

Jenna ﬂopped down on the ground beside Liasin, nudging him over until he surrendered part of the tree trunk to her. A smear of ichor colored her hair black. "If _you'd_ built the Bonegrinder," she began, dangling her arms over her knees in a lanky slouch, "what would you have done?"

"Probably the same thing. Those leeches were brilliant," he admitted blankly. "It couldn't have been easy to design, though -- they're more than a simple defense mechanism. I think I saw his wounds healing up when the gorged ones started to return to him."

" _ Great. _ " Jenna touched her shoulder gingerly, hissing as she did. One of the Bonegrinder's massive paws had swiped her into a tree, smashing her witless and insensate. When Liasin had found her, she'd been facedown in a bed of moss with a dislocated arm. "Maybe  now that it's had a taste of our blood, it'll know how delicious we are, and invite us  _ properly  _ out for dinner next time." She paused, taking a deep sniff of herself. "Hound's spit! I  _ reek!  _ What I wouldn't  _ do  _ for a hot bath."

"And what I wouldn't do to have you get one," Liasin agreed, grinning unrepentantly at her glare. "Bribe a mage and a warlock. You could be clean and in a soft bed for a few hours, and still be back before the next roll call."

Jenna's expression shifted with quicksilver speed into sullen resentment. "Don't tempt me. I can't afford to get caught. Blackwind said at the start of this that if he discovered anyone absent, he's going to dock their pay."

"That's never stopped you before."

"True -- but in my case, Blackwind's upped the stakes." Rolling her shoulder, Jenna winced and reached over with her good hand to rub at the joint. "He said he'd make me sleep in the  _ priest tent. _ "

Liasin paused. "That's very cruel of him." 

"I know!"

"I meant, to the healers," Liasin explained, lifting the waterskin for another sip. "Aren't their nerves wracked enough already?"

Liquid burst over his chin as Jenna grabbed the waterskin and squeezed; he turned his face away to keep from being doused completely, laughing at her scowl. Yielding to weariness, he let his hand go lax, forcing her to catch the skin before it fell. His stamina for jokes had never been able to compete with Jenna's, even on a good day. Closing his eyes instead, he rewound the ﬁght in his head, placing Lynnae back on the battleﬁeld with the Bonegrinder facing off against her.

In his mind, she danced forward in the opening gambits.  Her slender night elf limbs had been made into jagged diamonds by the ridges of her armor; her shield was a metal lozenge. Thrust. Advance. Dodge. Dodge. Then a strike, as the leeches burst out. Everything exploded at once. Mages panicked, a hunter screamed. A heal didn't land in time.

_ Again,  _ he thought.  _ I can  _ **_feel_ ** _ how we lost, but I'm not sure  _ **_when._ **

**__** He rewound the memory slowly, considering, weighing Lynnae's health. Dodge. Dodge. The leeches came. His attention was distracted by the screams; he'd kept his eyes ﬁxed on Lynnae. One warrior had dropped. The behemoth had lurched back into action during the chaos, swinging its arms again. When one bludgeoned Lynnae, she hadn't been as fast to recover. Before he had been able to utter another spell, the night elf had been struck down.

Mentally circling around that moment, Liasin mulled over options. It was tempting to believe that a single successful incantation would have saved everything -- too tempting.  _ No. We lost her before then.  _ The conclusion was solid; it matched what he could remember of the battle's ﬂow.   _ If it had been that strike or another, we wouldn't have been able to  keep her going. Adding another healer wouldn't have worked either. She crumbled too quickly -- they  would have run dry in seconds trying to keep up. _

_ Then how do we solve it for next time? _

The ﬂedgling efforts towards an answer were interrupted as one of the guild mages approached, carrying a sling full of bread and fresh  water. She herself was taking long pulls from a tin cup, grimacing dramatically with each swallow. The ﬁght had left her robes in disarray; she had hiked up the shredded fabric around her knees, tying them in one large, wadded knot. Coupled with the supplies over her shoulder, she seemed more like a washerwoman than a master of arcane powers.

"Leaves!" she declared as she came to a halt, and upended the cup. Tea drizzled out; a drop splashed on Liasin's armor. He stared at it morosely, too tired to wipe it off. The mage shook her hair back from her shoulders with a dramatic toss of her head. "This stuff's like drinking dirt. It's more plant than tea. If the druids try to tell me  _ one more time  _ that it's good for me, I'll send them all back to Kalimdor the next time they beg a portal to Stormwind."

"What do you expect, with all this traveling?" Jenna shot back. "We haven't been anywhere long enough to let them boil water properly, let alone restock. At this rate, they must be trying to make medicine out of  _ rocks _ . From the Plaguelands to Silithus, to  the Plaguelands again, over and over, portals and griffins and -- I'm amazed we don't keep our own ﬂock of feathery dinners by now, just to give us transit. We settle into the tents of Light's Hope just in time to relocate to the sands near Cenarion Hold. If  _ tea  _ is the only thing going wrong, then count your luck and call it  fair."

"But it's such a ﬁne life, being a migrant," the mage sighed.  "Isn't this what you expected when you signed up? Being rats on the tide, scum on a ship, barnacles on... something that isn't a tide  _ or  _ a ship -- "

"Your imagery could use some work, Moriah," Jenna groused, accepting a crumbling biscuit and tearing it into chunks.

Liasin let his attention slip away from their bantering, back towards the rest of the survivors. The secondary position the Brigade had fallen back to consisted of a ridge  past the battleﬁeld, further north  of the main camp that had been established near the edge of the Plaguewood. The Bonegrinder had followed them all along  their retreat, trampling supplies and scattering the menagerie of steeds that tried to ﬂee. It was not meant to be a permanent shelter, only a preparation  ground; the circle of ﬁrepits had been hastily dug, and would be dissembled as soon as the Brigade was strong enough for another assault.

Back on the battleﬁeld lurked the remains of their failure, manifest in remnants of broken armor -- and broken bodies. The former was for the blacksmiths and quartermaster to handle, scavenging what they could and discarding the rest. The latter was for the paladins to attend to.

Speciﬁcally, the bodies were for Liasin.

He was debating how much time they'd have to regroup when one of the sentry's voices echoed like a whipcrack.

"Riders!"

Blackwind halted his glowering around the camp, and craned his neck in the direction of the shout. "Heraldry?"

There was a moment of beleaguered silence. Then the sentry swung down, his feet kicking up a fresh dose of mildew and pollen. "Gold double chevron, white cloth. It's the Vics," he concluded apologetically.

News of the other guild spurred the Brigade into action. Bandages were dug out of supply packs, tossed towards wounds that had gone undressed. Fighters that had been lounging carelessly snapped to full alertness, grabbing for their discarded weapons and armor. By the time the ﬁrst of the Victory Victorious forces came into  view, the Brigade camp had straightened to ragged attention, with Blackwind planted sternly in the fore.

The lead rider that approached wore heavy plate, spiked and bladed on the shoulders. His mustache was waxed and pinched into two pink curls that sprung out from underneath his  bulbous nose. He grinned nastily as he pulled back on the controls of his mechanostrider, causing the bird to veer closer to where the Brigade was stationed. "Well, well, well!" he crowed. "The 103rd Ironforge Brigade, out here in the wilderness? By my mother's green gimbals! What're the chances?" The mechanical bird swiveled its beak and chirped. Smiling wider, the gnome  lifted a ﬁnger and shook it thoughtfully. "You know, there's something I've always been curious about. What happened to the other hundred and two?"

Blackwind didn't budge. "They weren't us."

More riders were passing them now; a second Victorious peeled away from the crowd, overhearing the exchange. Like the gnome, he was dressed in full plate. His expression was equally sardonic. "After seeing your performance against the Bonegrinder?" he called out, bringing his horse around. "We should count that as lucky!"

Moriah stepped forward. "How typical of the Vics," she sneered, "to watch and never lift a ﬁnger. Don't worry. We _knew_ you were there. We just didn't want you to feel bad about being outperformed, so we called the ﬁght early."

"And the screaming in terror while you ﬂed like children -- that was part of your plan too?" Smirking at his own wit, the man looked down his nose. "Blackwind, is it? An apt name for such an... unclean dwarf."

"Did we ﬁnd Blackwind's little crew?" Hooftbeats rattled, and then a woman rode up, dressed in embroidered mooncloth. Her tabard was decorated with an additional braid on each  shoulder -- an officer's ribbon, by guild custom. In accordance with Vic standards, hers was gold; the trim on her horse's bridle was equally ornate, strung with tiny tassels near the ears. "Why, so it is! How charming! Still trusting paladins to help keep you alive, instead of  _ real  _ healers?" As she reached Blackwind's position, she leaned down conspiratorially. "And how's that working out for you? Your  _ paladin  _ with a  _ sword. _ "

Blackwind huffed through his beard. "Well, Liasin?"

Liasin started guiltily. He'd been busy scrutinizing the shields of the paladins that were traveling by, marking the types that he could recognize. His counterpart among the Victorious had just ridden past: a man who called himself Sammal, who kept his hair trimmed close to his skull and his discipline just as strict. They traditionally had a long-standing series of prolonged staredowns whenever they passed one another by, gauging the other with mutual wariness and respect. When Blackwind had spoken, Sammal had just looked away, leaving Liasin wondering how to get close enough to the Victorious to examine the man's greaves in more detail.

He fumbled for a response. "It's ﬁne," he blurted, distantly embarrassed, painfully aware of the way Jenna covered her face to mask a groan. "I'm doing ﬁne with it."

Blackwind was the one who came to his rescue, folding his arms and bristling at the riders. "He's doing well enough that we don't even need  to make him  _ ﬁght  _ on the ﬁeld. Now, if yer done  _ spying  _ on us, then be off with yourselves to devise yer own tactics. Hmm?"

"Come on, Dinah!" the gnome laughed; the sound was high and mocking. "We all know that healing's the only thing a paladin's good for anyway! The Horde are lucky they have shamans."

With one last ﬂutter of giggles, Dinah spurred her horse back into the line. The two warriors trailed behind her, ﬂashing arrogant waves of their hands towards the Brigade. Around them -- in both guilds -- the hunters were making rude gestures to each other, sharing an encyclopedia of sign language. A low muttering had  begun to brew in the Brigade camp; members of all types stirred, their pride stung close to retaliation.

" _ Wait, _ " hissed Jenna as the column of riders moved on, her gaze darting between faces like a spooked ﬂy. Finding the one she sought, she turned and spat. "There he is. Filthy Fleck-Eye."

No sooner did Jenna speak than the mass of bodies  began to thin, parting gradually until they revealed the man inside. Riding leisurely in the latter half of the procession, as if he had all the time in the world, was Rudyn Brevenford.

Fitting his station as a guild master, Rudyn's mount was decorated with heavy barding that had been stitched  with a thread that gleamed even in the dull light of the Plaguewood. Two thick chevrons slashed across the front of the horse's coat, wrapping around its chest and meeting a handful of thin golden chains that rattled with each motion of its hooves. The warlock himself was less fanciful. From a distance, the splotch in his eye that gave him his nickname was invisible; his black robes were emblazoned with writhing crimson sigils, contrasting sharply with the pristine brilliance of his tabard.  Short-haired and tanned from the sun, he could have ﬁt in effortlessly at a Stormwind market, blending into the crowd after a simple change of clothes.

Unlike the rest of his guild, Rudyn did nothing to taunt the Brigade. His smile glossed over his surroundings without a single waver. For an instant, he seemed to pause, focusing directly on the small knot where Blackwind stood.

Then the Victorious moved on, their  procession disappearing deeper into the wood. A few of the trailing riders galloped to catch up, and then even they were gone, leaving only puffs of dust behind them.

Moriah didn't wait for the air to settle before she stepped forward. The mage had discarded her sling, and one of her hands was clenched in a ﬁst. " _ Filthy  _ isn't the word I was thinking of, Jenna. You saw how fancy their armor is, and how well-polished they keep it. Everyone looks to  _ them  _ now." Her eyes went accusingly towards Blackwind. "Once, they watched  _ us  _ like that."

He met her gaze evenly. "We don't need to be like Victory Victorious to succeed."

"But --"

"We  _ don't. _ " Blackwind's snap silenced the camp. "We'll be like ourselves. That's it."

Moriah broke ﬁrst. She twisted away from Blackwind, unable to stare him down. As Blackwind headed back towards the campﬁres, Jenna leaned towards the mage.

"Is murder legal yet?" she joked. "We could attack the Vics on the ﬁeld and claim it was an accident."

Moriah turned her head just enough to reveal the snarl lingering on her face. "You mean like they tried to do to  _ us  _ last time?" she growled, and stalked away in a whirl of shredded fabric, her robes shedding arcane sparks around her ankles.

One by one, the Brigade began to drift off to their chosen ﬁres, unrolling their bedding and laying out their weapons. With wounds to heal and strategy to assess, the Brigade's forces would be out of commission  for the rest of the day. Hunters would have to be sent out once more to ﬁnd where the Bonegrinder had lumbered off to. Like it or not, the Victorious would have the next crack at the beast.

The ﬁrst sentries were already gathering together, trading gossip before their patrol. Conversation had turned to bets  on if the Vics would lure the Bonegrinder through camp, or if there would be other treachery to look forward to. Afternoon sunlight was warming  the horizon, dripping low and warm over the twisted growth of the Plaguewood. The glare shone into Liasin's eyes as he stared into the distance where the other guild had gone.

Jenna reached out and nudged his shoulder. "Stop thinking about it, Liasin."

"We proved ourselves in the Molten Core," he said softly. "They should remember that."

She tapped a long ﬁnger against her lips, baring her teeth to  _ plick  _ a nail off an incisor. "Their loss if they don't want good healers," she rationalized. "Anyway, food should be on the ﬁre soon. A hot meal will help settle your stomach."

Liasin shook his head, feeling soreness tightening the muscles. "No. There's work to do, if I plan to get back before nightfall."

Lowering her hand, Jenna watched him doubtfully, and then shrugged. "Suit yourself. But remember -- if you die, I'll eat your share."

 

* * *

 

Blackwind found him as he was preparing the deadwagon.

As constant a feature of the camp as  the supply tent, the deadwagon had traveled with the guild  in one form or another ever since its inception. It was a simple wooden cart, with high sides and rails that had been studded with pack rings for utility. The  banner that had been nailed to the side was so tattered that it barely showed the insignia of the guild: curls of air that slashed across the contours of a mountain, carving out black winds on grey stone. A few canvas rolls were stored in the back, used as liners whenever the deadwagon was transporting its cargo. The fabric was so discolored that no  amount of scrubbing could do anything other than dull the stains, like a faded map of territories drawn out through the afterimages of corpses.

Blackwind's approach came as Liasin was stripping off his corroded armor to be delivered to the blacksmiths, sorting out the ruined gear from the salvageable. Lethargy was settled on his hip; his mace was among the casualties, and he had borrowed a plain shield from one of reserves. He kept backup equipment for a reason -- any experienced campaigner did -- but it had been left at the main camp, and there was no opportunity to circle back.

The dwarf didn't waste any time. "How many viable men d'we have?"

Liasin peeled one of his gloves off, wrinkling his nose at the meaty odor of leech-spit. "Why not ask the priests this, sir?"

"Because I hire priests to watch for the dying. I keep  _ you  _ paladins for the living.  _ You  _ were the one who convinced me that yer Order could hold its weight among my ranks, 'stead of just  standing around supporting priests and druids and wasting space.  _ You  _ know to watch our ranks for signs of weakening -- now tell me, how many do we have?"

Liasin looked down for a long minute; when he spoke, it was in a murmur to his hands. "Two didn't make it back. One did, but took the ﬁnal walk before we could stabilize her. Three more remain too weak to ﬁght. They'll have to rest longer before their injuries can mend. In terms of morale, you're looking at two priests who are agitated, and one of the druids. You'll want to reassign them in their units."

Blackwind grunted. "But only six bodies out of forty lost. That leaves us thirty-four. That's enough. How many of my paladins can I count on to help track down this menace?"

Reaching for the canvas rolls, Liasin began his methodical work of covering the bottom of the deadwagon, unfolding the sturdy lining and yanking it across the cart's bed. "Three. Roberts, Natalie, and Ironhand are capable of active combat. Maslin and Elijah are among  the fatigued. I'll be taking the dead back to Light's Hope myself. Farion can ride with me."

"Farion can take the deadwagon back alone. Someone must direct the paladins."

"Ironhand is just as experienced as I am, and steadier in the heat of battle." Sighing, Liasin set down the canvas, resting his palms on the splintering backboard of the wagon. The wood bit into his skin; silently, he thanked his callouses. "You know I have limits, commander. I need some time away from the front. Let me take it."

"Pah!" Planting his broad hands on his axebelt, the dwarf glowered. "We'll see about that. Go get yer bodies. And be quick about it."

The two draft horses that served the deadwagon had not strayed far. Doughty by breeding and jaded from experience, the matched browns had been made to endure the aftermath of every battle the Brigade had fought through. They had lost their fear of strange environments long ago -- and they knew Liasin well, from all the times he had been given corpse duty. As he approached the mushroom where the horses had taken shelter, they nosed at him hopefully in search of a  feedbag, showing no distress for the diseased wilderness around them.

"Dinner later," he warned, patting their necks before making a grab for their reins. A wet snuﬄe at his ear warned him in time; he ducked away before the horse tried to chew on his hair.  He led them back to the wagon and hitched them up without further interruptions. The trail back to the staging ground was not hard to follow. The ground had been churned with the violence of their passing; the massive footsteps of the Bonegrinder had disﬁgured the soil, crushing the withered grass and leaving wide smears of exposed mud.

The clearing where they had fought was deserted of life. Scavengers had not yet come out -- a rare thing in the Plaguelands, where hounds and grubs were notoriously quick to feed on any viable bodies. Liasin drew up the deadwagon around the edge, letting the horses choose their own walking pace.

It wasn't hard to ﬁnd the body he was looking for. The warrior that had tried to hold back the leech rush lay twisted near the center of the clearing, a solemn marker of their defeat. The leeches had not been merciful. Most of their victim's skin had been ripped away, the muscles shredded like wet tissue. What remained was coated with spittle. The man had been a summertime recruit to the Brigade, still in his trial period with the guild's enrollment. His family had been cobblers near Stormwind; Liasin remembered the man's stories around the ﬁre one evening, of how he'd turned to warrior's training as a means of doing something with his strength.

The second casualty was that of a dwarf from Kharanos. This body was harder to ﬁnd. The rogue had been caught quickly after Lynnae had fallen; even at full sprint, he'd been swatted down like a ﬂy when the Bonegrinder had run out of other targets for its anger. While he'd been spared the horriﬁc death that had claimed the warrior, the abomination had still killed him in the end. Liasin found the wreckage of leather and broken bones tucked beside a stump, curled into a small ball like a child lost in sleep forever.

"Light be with you," he grunted, rolling both corpses onto the cart. The warrior's feet stuck out over the end; Liasin rapped the heels lightly with the ﬂat of his hand. "It's too late for you to be giving  me trouble," he sighed, but it was with care that he settled the corpse onto its side so that he could fold the legs up and out of the way.

He searched on the ground for any belongings that might have been scattered during the fray. While the Brigade's  blacksmiths would scavenge the ground more thoroughly, Liasin knew from past experience that it was easier to recover the correct equipment directly off the battleﬁeld itself, rather than try to pick through the smithy supplies. The dwarf's daggers had fallen only a handspan away from the body; the leeches had shredded the warrior too thoroughly for Liasin to tell if anything had been lost, or simply devoured. He made one last arbitrary sweep around the ﬁeld, and resigned himself to what he had managed to ﬁnd.

As he was  about to haul himself back onto the wagon and depart, he saw  a ﬂicker of movement in the underbrush. On the far side of the clearing, a trio of plaguehounds had slunk out and were worrying at something in the weeds.

They bared their teeth as he approached, backing away at ﬁrst, and then holding their ground when they saw it was only him and the horses. When they did not ﬂee, Liasin sighed. "Shoo!" he ordered them sternly, taking a step forward in hope that a lack of fear might cause them to back down. One of them ﬂattened its ears; Liasin lowered his hand to his sword. Their eyes -- cunning with malice -- followed.

When he ﬁnally thumbed the blade clear of the scabbard, they relented slowly, growling with each step. Liasin let them go.  Once their rumbles of displeasure had faded away, he stepped closer to the object they had been ripping at, and allowed Lethargy to slide back into its sheath.

_ Another body,  _ he realized. An older kill, by the look of it; the hunters must not have thought it important enough to mention while they were going through their terrain setup. The body was decayed, the clothing torn and shredded, but there didn't appear to be any of the slime that the leeches had exuded. Whatever violence had killed her had not been the Bonegrinder.

There were barely any details left on the corpse. The wounds were numerous, ranging from long gashes to one snapped arrow shaft that sagged between the ribs. Frowning, Liasin traced his ﬁngers just above the rotting skin, mentally reconstructing what was once a living being.  _ Thin features,  _ he thought.  _ Long neck, and a smaller waist. A woman. _

Tugging on the crusted folds of the tabard, he squinted until the insignia on the front became clear.  _ A Scarlet. _

Leaning back on his heels, he debated what to do. If the Crusade had not already come to collect her, then they likely never would. Doubtless, they would prefer to bury her in one of their own graveyards. But it would be difficult for Scarlets to accept a corpse from an outsider -- Liasin was too suspect, and they might assume her remains had been tampered with.

"Rest well," he whispered to the body as he brushed loosening hanks of hair back, and grains of dirt away from the rotting skin. The irony was hard to ignore. He couldn't help remembering another afternoon he had spoken those words with Scarlets involved -- but this  time, he was offering them to one of the Crusade, rather than to one of their victims. The turnabout did not hinder his brief prayer. "Your worries are over now, and the Light is waiting. Rest well."

He added her onto the wagon beside the two slain Brigade, wrapping her ﬁrst to keep from further damage to her body. She was already beginning to leak as he hefted her in her canvas blanket; as he felt her weight begin to shift, he closed his eyes brieﬂy to block out the mental image of her limbs loosening and sliding out.

He looked around for anything else that might belong to the woman; ﬁnding only a splintering mace, he rolled that onto the wagon with the rest. The horses snorted and ﬂicked their ears, eager to return to camp.

_ As regrettable as these deaths are, there will be more to come,  _ Liasin thought as he hauled himself back onto the bench seat of the wagon.  _ Unless we can ﬁnd a good strategy for the Bonegrinder, any victory for the Brigade will be paid dearly in blood. _

The sun eased its way towards the horizon as he drove, drenching the twisted landscape in gold and shadow. Liasin let the reins hang in coils over his hands. They swayed back and forth in time with the rhythm of the wagonwheels, slapping against his ﬁngers.

By the time he'd looped back around to camp, he thought he had the answer to Lynnae.   
  


 

* * *

 

Without exception, Jenna never liked visiting the paladin tent. Other disciplines were different enough that they didn't bother her. It always felt as if she came as a supplicant to the priests -- cringing away from robed healers who looked alternately horriﬁed and frustrated by her presence -- and all two of the druids seemed indifferent whenever she stopped by. The rogues liked her; they would compare their best kills, and were loudly jealous of the daggers she'd nicked from the spoils of previous campaigns. The mages would usually cheat her at dice.

But the paladin tent always made her feel like an intruder.  Much of it was familiar: the smells of armor polish, the maces and shields littering the racks, the clang of scraped metal as someone adjusted their gauntlets. Some of it was not. A small table was reserved for  the paladins' religious texts and symbols; it usually got shoved near the middle of the tent, where it served duty for meals as well as strategy.

The tomes that they owned were metal-bound, studded with loops for chains and wood for covers. Unlike the priests, Jenna never saw the paladins actually study the pages; they just seemed to shuffle the massive, iron-clad books around and occasionally swatted at each other with them.

In service, Liasin kept a well-mannered crew. She'd never noticed any of them to refuse attending a guild team. For the most part, she had to admit that they seemed interchangeable. One paladin was good as another, and Jenna appreciated the skills they could offer. But she could never escape the feeling of being resented -- of seeing an occasional glance that was held just a fraction too long, or a polite smile that showed too much in the way of teeth.

She neared the tent just as Ironhand was leaving. "He won't learn," the dwarf was shouting over his shoulder. His thick, white beard was half-plaited; the evening light through the Plaguewood made it look like  a nest of exposed intestines. "No matter what we say, Nathaniel will demand a full course of whatever magics we can spare. Ye know it to be fact!"

"Then maybe next time, he'll realize that whenever he complains about a single, Light-given blessing being late,  _ all  _ of them mysteriously get stripped off," came the retort. It was Liasin's voice.

_ And he doesn't sound particularly happy, either,  _ Jenna thought morosely. She stepped aside to let Ironhand pass, exchanging a brief nod with the dwarf before she leaned towards the open tent ﬂap. Despite her own self-conﬁdence, she was leery of confronting Liasin when the paladins were in such foul moods. Liasin and Ironhand's arguments were legendary; more than once, they had conducted heated debates in the midst of pitched battle. Finally, she lifted the ﬂap the rest of the way, and ducked in.

Liasin glanced up from the maps spread out over the prayer table. Jenna's eyes went ﬁrst to his waist in search of his weapons; ﬁnding Lethargy laid out on the paladin's cot and safely out of arm's reach, she relaxed. "Are you letting your paladins get away with  all kinds of mischief again?" she asked.

"I don't have to," Liasin replied, not missing a beat. "I do it myself."

Jenna edged inside another step. Her jaunty smirk felt forced. "You're almost starting to make me proud, Liasin."

"I have a ﬁrst name too," he reminded her pleasantly.

"Aye, and no one uses it for a reason. There's a million Williams out there. But you're the only Liasin we know. At least this way," she argued, "we'll be able to distinguish your grave from all the rest."

"Your foresight is touching," he told her, and looked towards the open tent ﬂap.

She waited a moment to see if he would respond further; when he continued to stare ﬁxedly in the direction of the ﬁeld, she steeled herself and braved the question. "Are you still angry about the Monastery?"

"You got me  _ banned _ , Jenna." Despite the harshness of Liasin's words, she could see the corner of his mouth turning up. "How bad is it to get banned from the  _ Scarlets?  _ You might as well say that I set baby kittens on ﬁre."

"Some would consider it a badge of honor," she countered. "The Scarlets, not the kittens. Stop ignoring me."

"I'm not. If I was, I'd have a lot more satisfaction in my life." Lifting his hands suddenly, Liasin scrubbed his face hard. The tension broke all at once, draining out of his shoulders and leaving them slumped. "Blackwind's trying to keep me from taking the deadwagon to Light's Hope."

"So you're doing it anyway."

"Yes." His gaze skipped to the papers spread out on the prayer table; one ﬁnger ﬂicked restlessly at the top parchment. "Blackwind's telling me I can't bring Farion now either. He's assigning him to take point on the Bonegrinder. I think it's his way of getting me not to go."

Jenna eased the rest of the way inside, until she could rest her hip against the table. "And will you?"

"Of course." Liasin pushed his stool back. The half-melted stub of a priest's candle had been planted like a sentinel near the maps; the aroma of vanilla and honey rose fresh as he pinched the crown of its wax. "It's important."

_Predictably sentimental._ The observation was tinged with exasperation. Aloud, Jenna drawled, "I hate to break it to you, but I'm pretty sure that a few extra bodies in this place won't make a difference. If you're going to save a couple, you might as well bring them _all_ back."

She'd meant it in jest, but Liasin didn't seem to notice the mockery. Instead, the paladin hesitated, and then shook his head. "Doing so would be best, but the sheer number makes it impossible. We can't just burn the entire forest down in one large funeral pyre, either. The wood's too saturated with rot, and it takes too much time to char bones to powder -- people could still dig up the bones if we weren't thorough. At what point do we draw the line? I don't know. Besides," he added, grinning, "if  _ I  _ were Scourge and I found out that someone was making a serious effort to clean up battleﬁeld corpses, the ﬁrst thing I would do would be to lace the ground with bodies to get collected. Then, at night, when those corpses were safely behind lines in the enemy camp, the skeletons would animate and that would be the end of that."

Jenna stared. "Don't ever be Scourge, Liasin."

"I'll try to keep your request in mind," he quipped dryly. "Regardless, I need to bring their bodies back to the nearest post so that their families will know they haven't become undead. Some people can beneﬁt from that peace of mind."

With a shrug, Jenna leaned against the table, feeling the  wood whine and creak. "A letter works just as well. Why bother with more? Couldn't we drop them off with the Dawn, for safety's sake? Not to mention the gold we'd save."

"You've seen the backlog of corpses that the Dawn have to deal with. Necromancers can raise those bodies, trolls can steal them for food -- but at least if we send the fallen back to their loved ones,  _ someone  _ will have closure. Speaking of money," Liasin added with a sigh, "I need to get pay from the Quartermaster for the corpse fee. Coppershine won't be happy. She said Deliser's rationed how many people are allowed to die this month, and we're already past budget."

"I'll get it," Jenna blurted. "And -- I can ride escort with you. The healers don't need another ﬁghter in melee with the Bonegrinder anyway."

He looked at her for a long moment, his expression implacable at her offer of peace, clumsy as it was. "All right," he agreed, and repeated it. "All right."


	6. Chapter 5

The next morning, Liasin woke up with something heavy resting against his foot -- a stone lump that had the warmth of a living body, but the weight of a dead thing, trapping him in place. He tensed his muscles, ready to struggle. Then he woke up further and forced himself to relax, giving up until he could understand the nature of the burden.

Once he blinked to clear his vision, he realized what was pinning him down. One of the hunter's boars had its snout up on his cot, draping its weight indiscriminately. Turning his ankle, Liasin toed it idly through the sheets; it ignored him and continued to stare mournfully in Ironhand's direction, where the dwarf was dividing up the morning rations.

"Lazy hunters not bothering to actually  _ hunt, _ " Ironhand grumbled. He had broken into the reserves laid aside for their tent, and was unwrapping a hank of cheese from its shell of brown waxed paper. The boar whined; Ironhand thumbed off a chunk of cheese and ﬂung it towards the tent's exit, causing the animal to lunge after the morsel. "Out! And tell yer pansy, prancing master to feed you himself!"

Liasin shook away the lingering dread from the  night and pushed himself out of bed. The map that had  been spread out on the prayer table along with breakfast showed a crude rendition of the terrain surrounding the camp. It had been on his advice that the Brigade had sheltered on the side of the ridge, using the natural protection of the rising hills for cover. The choice seemed  to have paid off; the Bonegrinder had not returned to squash them into jelly while they slept.

"Good morning, fair princess." Ironhand shoved the cheese towards him, busily cutting up an apple. "Fear of the Bonegrinder didn't disturb your beauty sleep, did it? Roberts already stepped out. Said he wants to see you for -- and I quote -- the 'declining state of paladins everywhere.'"

Liasin groaned. "Nefarian hang me for a  _ roast _ ," he cursed. It was too late to go back to sleep; he wouldn't be able to dodge Roberts either way. He accepted the greasy cheese from Ironhand, nibbling a bite while he studied the map. "I'm sure you've already guessed why we failed yesterday."

"I've  _ guessed  _ that we let the warrior drop like a stone instead of trying to keep her conscious." Pausing in his efforts with the apple, Ironhand yanked the top map to the side, unearthing the diagrams underneath.

Battle positions were spelled out in  small crosses over the landscape. The Bonegrinder's position was marked out with a ragged circle. "There was no reason why Lynnae should not have been able to handle it," Ironhand insisted. "She's outﬁtted just as well as Farion. She knows how to ﬁght. She's been following the same training regime for a month --"

"It's not a question of equipment, _or_ training," Liasin countered. "You know that as well as I do. The reason we failed is because the best healers in the Brigade hate having Lynnae in their unit assignment. They've always said that they can't keep her standing. Assigning her as the point warrior in a new ﬁght made for poor morale among the healers, and poorer conﬁdence. They couldn't maintain focus."

Ironhand turned the small knife in the apple's innards, ﬂicking free a seed. "Then the problem is with  _ them _ ," he declared stubbornly. "One warrior or another should  _ not  _ have made the difference. We've had estimates for how hard that thing can strike. If they followed the precautions we established, then our strategy should have held up."

"Living error," Liasin defended; his voice was soft, and tired. "We're alive -- we make mistakes."

"The dead make mistakes too." 

"Yes. That's a problem."

Ironhand lowered the apple. " _ What? _ "

"Sorry." Liasin shook his head to banish the cobwebs that were sticking to his thoughts, remnants of sleep that had confused his thoughts. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now, right? Farion's been made point. The healers have no problems with him."

The dwarf snorted. He ﬁnished splitting the apple apart, and shoved a bite into his mouth, ending the conversation there.

Liasin didn't press. Scooping up a piece of the  thick, brown-grained bread, he absconded with the cheese and exited the paladin tent. As he did, he glanced around quickly in case Roberts had decided to set up an ambush. Bread and cheese were poor weapons to defend himself with, but Liasin had resorted to more desperate measures before.

While Roberts was nowhere in sight, another paladin was propped up outside the tent. Arm rigged in a sling, Elijah was gloomily observing the ﬁghters that had started their practice exercises for  the morning, sparring and stretching as they tried out their backup weapons. The young man's bullish forehead and square jaw did not betray his family's long linage as archivists -- spectacled and  ﬁne-boned, every one until him. He'd traveled with the Brigade for long enough to outgrow a trial contract; Liasin had signed the approval himself.

"Liasin!" Elijah called out as he noticed the paladin, brightening visibly. His expression fell almost instantly afterwards. "I can't believe I'm being held back from the ﬁght. Can't you speak to Blackwind for me?"

Tearing off a piece of bread, Liasin offered it to the other man.  "Think of it as an opportunity to study," he suggested mildly.

"If you want me to study, then show me how you pull off that trick," Elijah urged. "The one with Nathaniel. I couldn't catch it all last time, with the ogres. I know it had to have been you -- I saw you watching him."

Liasin smiled. He hesitated; then mischief tugged on his sensibilities, and he gave in. "All right. Remember," he began, "the Light can only bless us with so much in a ﬁght. But it's possible to undo that blessing as well, to remind someone not to take it -- or us -- for granted. Watch."

Swapping the bread and cheese to his left hand, Liasin frowned, concentrating on the proper order of spells.  He ﬂexed his right hand; the golden shimmer of a strength blessing wrapped around his ﬁngers, priming its energies before transferring to Elijah. Liasin didn't  let the spell land before he was already whispering the word for another. Might gave way to the cool sheen of Wisdom; Wisdom became Light itself, and then moved through the routine to Salvation before ﬁnishing up with a crimson sigil of Sacriﬁce that ﬂickered and died  away. What had been one blessing had changed shape to none; anything that Elijah had been gifted with had been replaced, and therefore erased by Liasin's rapid efforts.

Liasin allowed the brief trance of concentration to fade before he spoke. "You can vary that last  one as you like," he explained, feeling the prickle of holy energies ebbing from his palm. "And if there's another blessing in the chain, you'll have to revise the order, but you can get the gist of it. Start with your own blessing, use it to overwrite all the others, and then ﬁnish with something short-lived. Just don't let Blackwind catch you. We're not supposed to do these kinds of things -- it just sows dissent."

"We're not supposed to do a  _ lot  _ of things." Rolling his eyes, Elijah nodded down towards the bulky sling that kept his right arm bundled like a bolt of cloth in front of him. "I'd rather be ﬁghting up in the front. But now that I've been injured, the warriors will just get to say that it's because I never should have been there in the ﬁrst place."

Shaking his head, Liasin peeled off a thumb-sized lump of cheese and popped it into his mouth. "Don't let them bother you. Remember -- any weakness can be made into a strength, and any strength into a weakness, because that's how our enemies come to know and predict us. And we come to depend on our strengths, because they're the easy route. Play to your weaknesses once in a while."

"Right." Elijah smirked. "Next, we can get one of the priests to block the Bonegrinder's ﬁst with their  _ face. _ "

Liasin grinned back. "Well, don't abandon common sense. But at some point, everyone's best points become their worst. You'll do ﬁne. Rest up and let Ironhand take care of it. I look forward to hearing the rewards you'll take in for the Bonegrinder's bounty."

He left Elijah with half the bread and all of the cheese, nibbling on the remains of the loaf while he strolled through the secondary camp. The deadwagon had been parked on the far edge of the  tents, near the stable line; Liasin could see a few guild members heading purposefully in the cart's direction. Before he had retired for the night, he had hung the mailbag on the side of the deadwagon and slung  the ﬂagstaff through one of the rail rings. The ﬂapping colors had alerted people to bring their letters and packages, scrambling to ﬁnish correspondences that had been penned hastily in snatches of time between ﬁghts, digging for postage out of the linings of their pockets.

He took his time wandering through the camp, listening to idle talk.

Huddled in the shadows of the priest tent, a clump of rogues  were playing jacks with their caltrops. They had complained all through Silithus about the burdens of wearing black leather in the desert; now that they were in the Plaguelands, the topic of communal ire seemed to be the mildew that was staining their boots in unsightly ways. A few hunters were taking shade beside an oversized mushroom, prodding its decaying stem with their swords as they traded gossip. Beyond them, Jenna could be seen shouting provocations at her sparring partner.

Pausing before one of the cooking ﬁres, Liasin looked over the camp, feeling a familiar weakness spread through his chest -- a twinge of mixed affection and protectiveness, a fondness for everything he saw. With that fondness came pain. The noise of so many voices was at once soothing and distracting, each one tugging on his attention. The haphazard tents disarmed his thoughts. Even the scraggled trees of the Plaguewood were compelling in their own way, testaments to life in all its chaotic, messy struggle to continue existing.

He caught sight of Roberts and winced, closing his eyes ruefully. If the other paladin ran into him now, Liasin was liable to promise Roberts anything if it seemed like it would help the man's customarily bad mood.

_ Enough of that,  _ he reminded himself with chagrin. His hand crept up to press against his sternum, pushing hard, as  if it could ease the ache like a simple cramped muscle. After a moment, the sensation ebbed away -- back into its corner of Liasin's mind, where it refused to vanish entirely, but at least could be forgotten for a while.

Blackwind was waiting for him at the deadwagon.

The dwarf had hunkered down beside the back wheels, leaning on  his axe. Half his armor was still in repairs with the blacksmiths; the exposed chain undershirt was too old to gleam, sewn together from a variety of stray links.  As he glanced up and saw Liasin, he opened his mouth with a scowl.

"I'm heading out in an hour," Liasin said ﬁrst, not daring to allow the dwarf to claim the opening volley. "It'll be better if I leave before there's a chance of getting caught between the Brigade and the Bonegrinder. If you want me to carry any messages to Deliser, you should send them now."

Blackwind frowned. "We'll have the beast down before you return."

The warning did not have the desired effect. "Good," Liasin grinned. "If the Brigade can't manage that, then we've got  _ real  _ problems."

Molliﬁed by the praise despite himself, Blackwind scrubbed a hand across his thick beard. "Are ye  _ sure  _ y'have to go?"

"Yes."

At the unwavering verdict, Blackwind spat, trundling away with jerky, angry steps. "Your heart is softer than a rotted fruit," he grumbled. "Go, then. Go, while we're busy claiming glory. And pick up a backbone along the way."

Liasen turned away, shaking his head. Behind him, Blackwind called out, "This'll be our last attempt for a while. We're due in Silithus at the end of the week. If you can't make it to Light's Hope and back in time, we're not portalling twice. You'll have to wait until we return."

One hand on the ﬂagstaff, Liasin stared at the stained banner that hung from the tempered wood. "Make sure you don't need the deadwagon before then," he replied, "and we have a deal."   
  


* * *

  
In Felstone Field, the ghouls were prowling.

They ranged across the blighted farmland like overgrown maggots, lurching into action whenever something passed them by that was not of the Scourge. As often as they were struck down, their corpses  were revived by patrols of necromancers -- and strengthened by the miasma of blight that rolled forth from the plague cauldron. Ensconced on a platform that lurked in the heart of the ﬁeld, it sat like  a stone tumor or a tree stump waiting to break a plow. Its vapors sank into the soil. Its ﬁlth stained the air.

The man that fought against the undead did so with impunity, experienced enough not to press too aggressively into the churned furrows. His routine was practiced. Advancing  just far enough to lure the nearest ghouls, the man would wait until he had baited at least one to attack. Then, deﬂecting their attacks neatly with his greataxe, he would retreat back to the edge of the ﬁeld. Over and over he performed the routine, until the day ran long, and  he ﬁnally withdrew to the treeline for shelter.

Eventually, when his supplies grew low, the man would ﬁght the lonely way back to Chillwind, struggling through the outskirts of Andorhal. Then he would return to the ﬁeld.

During the day, his gear was slung up in a tree to keep it safe while he worked -- protecting it from predators, but also from travelers who might have greedy ﬁngers. He watched both Alliance and Horde with equal suspicion whenever they roamed  too close to his ﬁrepit. His armor was in mismatched repair, all of it plate; the grip of his massive, two-handed axe was scratched along its length, wrapped and rewrapped daily. The one thing to distinguish him from a warrior was the thick book that hung from his left hip, where another man might have worn a weapon.

The name inked on the inside of the libram was  _ Arithor. _

He was not alone. Occasionally, the ﬁeld would be visited by others who had accepted the Dawn's cause. Horde and Alliance alike would test themselves against the undead. Each moved on eventually, either looking for more proﬁtable venues or were slain, joining the ranks of the ghouls and skeletons. For the most part, they left Arithor in peace. The ﬁeld was big enough for several assailants -- even for the Scarlets, who kept doggedly trying to stake a claim along the perimeter.

Arithor had been to the other farms; he'd watched the Scourge necromancers harvest samples of tainted grain, busily repairing the cauldrons and reviving undead that had fallen. The battle -- as far as he could tell -- seemed to have no end.

He wasn't particularly bothered by that.

On days when he did manage to ﬁght through the ranks of undead, there was always the Cauldron Lord waiting. Bilemaw was a particularly rancid ghoul, whose skin had gone mazed with rot. Arithor had triumphed over the ghoul once, only to see it given new life by the necromancers; now he fought with the grim satisfaction of knowing he at least provided them with an inconvenience. When he was lucky enough to incapacitate the Cauldron Lord, there was only a narrow window of time to try and damage the crucible that simmered in the middle of the ﬁelds. The Argent Dawn provided him with chemicals on occasion, but Arithor liked to resort to cruder means when he didn't have time to visit Chillwind: instead of dumping potions into the cauldron, he used rocks. Anything else convenient that came to hand was fair game as well.  On more than one occasion, Arithor had hurled the refuse from his  camp into the pot, watching it sink within the corrosive sludge. One particularly creative afternoon had found him dumping the entire corpse of a giant spider into the stew.

The cauldron was, unfortunately, too heavy for him to move, or else he would have entertained himself by relocating the thing around the ﬁeld while the Scourge tried to catch up.

Since the day before, a new set of invaders had set up camp on the other side of the ﬁeld. Matched in white tabards that were branded with gold, their group numbered ﬁve in total. Plate mail mixed with robes; the disciplines were balanced between ﬁghters and casters, making for a well-rounded group of adventurers. Their leader --  as far as Arithor could tell -- wore a gold braid on his shoulder, distinguishing him from the others. If it was a particularly special mark, or what the tabard sigil even represented, Arithor didn't know. He had never bothered to keep track of guilds. All of them were useless.

Arithor had heard them around their ﬁre all throughout the night, squawking and joking and complaining about the unpleasant conditions. In the morning, they had cooked their breakfast without any thought for their surroundings, frying up meat and potatoes. The smell had attracted everything in the surrounding countryside that possessed a functional stomach, and an appetite to go with it.

Somehow, the ﬁve of them had survived the stray animals and undead that had come sniffing around their camp, and were now gearing up for  a day hunting ghouls.

Mouthing a cold lump of biscuit, Arithor watched the white blots of their tabards across the ﬁeld. He did not expect to be bothered.  The greataxe he bore was a standard model from the smiths at Ironforge; he'd done a stiff bit of trading to pay for the arcanite to be properly forged and a weapon chain attached, training with it until the axe sat comfortably in his hands. The axe was a ﬁne piece, worth killing him for -- but half the other paladins that passed through Chillwind showed the same taste in weapons, and Arithor was hardly remarkable in that respect. Physically, he was not striking. His hair was horse-thick and muddy, tied back to keep it out of the way, cut short only when he could be bothered to hack at it with a knife. Years roughing it on his own had left his muscles rangy, accustomed to sleeping on rocks and roots. He bathed without shame in streamwater. The Light, he ﬁgured, did not care if he wore a little sweat.

He ignored the debacle across the farmstead as he prepared himself for his own battles. Necromancy had revived over half the ghouls he had doggedly labored to kill all that week.  _ Half alive means half dead,  _ he reminded himself grimly as he surveyed the tortured farmland, and set about his task.

It was some time before he became aware  of the ﬁve strangers again. The guild team was handling the ﬁeld like amateurs. They were sloppy, letting undead wander the ﬁeld around them instead of systematically clearing empty space. Whenever they managed  to down one, they crowed with delight and searched its remains until they could ﬁnd the tainted carving of its Scourgestone. At times, they would riﬂe the bodies of the kills that others had made, swooping down on beleaguered adventurers who were too busy defending themselves to stop them.

Whether it stemmed from greed or malice, the guild's mischief extended further. Periodically, they rounded up stray ghouls into lumbering clusters, frost magics snapping off their leader's ﬁngers as he conjured bolt after bolt of razor-sharp ice. Once they had gathered the attention of enough undead, they would lure their grotesque parade over to other quarters of the ﬁeld where separate battles were being waged, and let their own quarrels mix with those of others.

Spells burst and went awry. Fighters stumbled back, ﬁnding ghouls in the way of their sword swings.

Arithor kept his attention on his work. Though the guild's behavior was objectionable, it was also commonplace. Any adventurer should know the hazards of being in combat. Sometimes, those dangers came from other people.

His own corner of the farmstead was becoming secure. The ghouls had been driven back, save for a pair that continued to harry him. As he deﬂected them both, he glanced towards the center of the farmlands. The undead had been temporarily thinned. A clear path was beginning to open between him and the cauldron.

Pleased, Arithor shoved hard against the ghoul that was trying to bite at his shoulder, its blackened teeth thwarted by armor. The ground underneath them both ﬂickered. Golden light snaked in thin  veins through the soil, now consecrated beneath his feet -- made holy by Arithon's presence and prayers. Burned by the sacred power, the ghouls staggered, howling in agony as their rotting ﬂesh began to crisp.

Suddenly a third ghoul lurched forward from his left -- then a fourth. Inwardly cursing himself for not having noticed them, Arithor dispatched one of the weakened undead with a brutal twist of his axe, splitting its torso from its spine. He lifted his weapon in time to block the claws of the fresh assailants, falling back several steps to try and reclaim distance. As powerful as the greataxe was, without room to swing it, all the metal only became a hindrance.

For a few seconds, the ﬁght seemed to be under control. Then a quicksilver ﬂash of magic burst across Arithor's vision, and he saw a ﬁfth ghoul step onto his consecrated ground -- and instantly turn towards him, infuriated by the sting of the Light.

Realizing that the group of adventurers had picked him as their next victim, Arithor braced himself for the ﬁght. Doggedly, he moved  from target to target, conserving his weaker parries for the ghouls that seemed as if they were faltering, while expending stronger efforts on the enemies that remained fresh. His muscles began to  ache, and then scream. The greataxe's weight became steadily harder to lift. One by one, the undead fell.

As soon as the last ghoul had crumbled at Arithor's feet, the group did it again.

Instantly, Arithor cut short his prayers to the Light. The brilliance of the soil dimmed, slow to fade away entirely; without the protection of consecrated ground, Arithor ran the risk of being overwhelmed by multiple opponents. With it, however, he lay himself open to being manipulated. His timing was a fraction too late. Even as the golden ﬁre began to ebb, the strangers ﬁnished leading a new pack of undead onto the territory he had worked to carve out.

Seared by the pain of the holy soil, the ghouls once more twisted away from their pursuit of the guilded, and came for Arithor. He hissed under his breath in annoyance. Freed to act, the ﬁve strangers darted forward towards the exposed cauldron. Disturbed by the commotion, Bilemaw clawed its way out of the loose soil around the cauldron's platform, and rose to meet them.

As Arithor watched -- catching glimpses through his own frantic battle -- the strangers reached the center of the ﬁeld successfully.  Bilemaw gurgled and lashed out, but was rapidly overwhelmed by the combination of spell and blade. The necromancy holding it together dissipated; its power lay inert, crushed back into unmoving bones.

But though they had successfully struck the master ghoul down, the guild group paused. As Arithor watched in disbelief, they backed away. The cauldron was left untouched.

"What's the matter?" he spat as they retreated past him. "Lost your nerve?"

The younger members sneered derisively as they slunk past, but it was their leader who paused. Drawing back his stave, he faced Arithor directly; the intricate brocade on his robes glittered with the light of latent enchantments, gleaming from his wrists and hands like trapped stardust. "Only fools would want to stop the cauldron permanently," he informed the paladin. "We're just here to curry favor with the Dawn. If anything, it's more useful that the Scourge keep restoring the thing. It means we get to keep looking good."

The bald-faced admission left Arithor stunned. "Well," he stated, the bile momentarily driven out of him. "That's reprehensible."

"And why are  _ you  _ out here, then?"

Anger rallied itself back in Arithor's chest. "Because someone has to try and ﬁnish the job -- particularly if you sots won't. The  _ Horde  _ are more polite than you. They might not help me, but at least  _ their  _ incompetence doesn't get in my way."

The mage smirked. An old ﬁght had left him with a waxy scar along his chin; it hooked up and curled near his mouth, granting his expression a lopsided cruelty that matched his tone. "Duly noted. Why don't you go spend time with them instead? Their barricade's just down the road."

"I shouldn't have to," Arithor retorted. "These cauldrons don't belong to you."

"They don't look like they belong to you either.  From where I'm standing, it appears that they're the property of whoever get there ﬁrst."

The rationale was hard to stomach. It was no less true. Narrowing  his eyes, Arithor shifted his greataxe, the head of it nudging his boot. "That still doesn't mean you have to obstruct my work."

"No," the mage admitted. "But we  _ can.  _ So we  _ will. _ "

The man's arrogance turned Arithor's lip in a sneer. He looked over the group, assessing their strength in comparison to his own. Five to one made for poor odds. Their word against his meant that if they accused him of attempted murder, any peacekeepers would be liable  to believe the larger party. Whether or not Arithor liked it, he was outnumbered in his efforts to thwart the Felstone Scourge.

_ If they want to do my work for me,  _ he thought in disgust, retreating,  _ let them. _

It was a distasteful choice, but not a surrender. Reaching the treeline, Arithor leaned his axe against the trunk of the gnarled oak that held the rest of his gear. He carefully ﬂipped open the small book that hung from his side. Battered and stained, the cover nicked along one corner, the libram had  been rebound so many times that the pages were barely being kept together as a sheaf of notes. It had been tied shut crosswise with leather thongs, and even then the pages had started to slip out, getting more crumpled and muddy with each passing month.

It fell open automatically to one of the early sections as Arithor cradled the broken cover in his hands.  _ Tenacity,  _ he read. The only Virtue that mattered.   
  


* * *

 

The deadwagon creaked a slow song of boards and nails as it trundled down the thin path that lead through the Plaguewood. Despite its surroundings, its wheels were not rushed. Some  trails in the Plaguewood were easier to travel than others, though none were completely safe. Hazards lurked everywhere. Some came in the form of beasts and monsters, while others were byproducts of the environment, manifestations of a land that had gone feral while trying to survive the Blight.

The route Liasin had chosen wound to the south of the main roads, avoiding the worst of the ruins where towns had once stood. Insects buzzed in a dull roar, screeching in a constant buzz like exposed tram cables in Ironforge. The sky was cast in a perpetual twilight, with spores and ash instead of snow. Debris inevitably coated anyone  who lingered for longer than an hour in the cursed woods; already, the canvas shrouds in the wagon had garnered a layer of pollen dust, causing them to resemble snowdrifts, an entire landscape built from limbs and bone.

Jenna was letting her horse pace the deadwagon, periodically urging it to scout ahead whenever the mood took her. As the breeze stirred, shedding a fresh wave of pollen upon them, she shifted her reins to one hand and picked ﬂuff out of her hair irritably. "Always a relaxing ride in the Plaguelands," she grumbled, examining the clump with disgust. " _ Love  _ what the Scourge have done with the place."

"I apologize." Amassing his own coat of fuzz on the seat of the deadwagon, Liasin grinned over at her. "I know you hate it here."

Jenna laughed, ﬂicking the tuft  towards him; it did not have the weight to cross the distance, and ﬂuttered to the ground midway. "This is  _ still  _ better than the time we were all camped out on the Burning Steppes, ﬁghting with other guilds for space to crawl down the chains into Blackrock." She nudged her horse with a heel, and  it whickered stubbornly rather than pick up speed. "For the record, I've developed an intolerance for anywhere  _ bleak  _ and  _ red _ . You can bury me in the middle of the Wetlands when I die. My body will ﬂoat up come high tide, and the gnolls can eat me for their lunch."

Leaning against the backboard, Liasin watched the withers of the draft horses sway back and forth as they plodded methodically along. "Blackrock's chains were nothing. Remember when Blackwing's lair was ﬁrst broken open? The hallway to the orb was packed so tight that you couldn't even draw a sword without hitting one of your own guildmates."

"Bodies stacked three deep, wall to wall," Jenna replied dreamily. "It was  _ beautiful. _ "

"You wouldn't have liked it half so much if  _ you  _ were one of the people getting thrown out the windows."

She only barked a chuckle in her own defense.

Liasin let the conversation drift, stretching out his legs and propping his heels on the edge of the wagon bench. Pollen was trying to crawl up his nose and make him sneeze. The slow rocking of the wagon dulled his attention. Drowsy, he let his attention wander, letting his gaze roam from tree to sky to soil, allowing the momentary peace to sink into his spirit like rain might bless the earth.

It was a mistake.

The wave of pain came upon him suddenly. He stiﬂed a gasp as it rushed over his thoughts and tightened his chest, taking advantage of his inattention to seize control. He knew better than to cry out. As crippling as the sensation was, it was no worse than any of the other attacks he'd endured over the years -- even as it unfolded inside his mind and spread open his heart until he was completely defenseless.

In the Plaguewood, life fought to survive. The trees around him thirsted for nutrients. Plaguehounds roamed with empty stomachs; insects shrilled as bats snapped hungrily at the breeze. The spirits of the dead prowled the empty villages where they had fallen. The twinned beauty and agony of so much complexity overwhelmed Liasin; he felt close to weeping from love of it, and from the weight of all the turmoil that came hand in hand with being alive.

Empathy paralyzed him. Serenity sapped his resistance. Surrounding the deadwagon, the tortured Plaguewood smothered Liasin's thoughts, shattering the barriers of his self-identity until the paladin saw his individual existence compared to that of the  entire forest. All things were connected in an unbreaking chain; all things were entwined in the same cycle. Liasin was only a small part of the whole, destined to live and die and feed other beings, as he had been nourished in turn.

He didn't have to continue on to Light's Hope. He didn't have to ﬁght any longer. He could simply lie down in  the soil and let himself go, allowing the roots of the trees to twine around his bones, drinking of his ﬂesh and blood until he was dissolved back  into the earth, his life surrendered to aid those of others in one long, never-ending circle --

"Liasin!"

He snapped out of it, breath choking in his  throat. Mouth dry, the muscles of his throat contracted in a swallow as he sought frantically for equilibrium. Reorienting himself with an effort, he realized the cause of Jenna's shout.

Ghouls had scrabbled out from the underbrush, attracted by the deadwagon and its precious cargo. Two of them were charging the driver's seat; three had gone for Jenna, scuttling forward with jerky limbs. Liasin tried to yank his sword around, but it had been positioned at an angle on the bench to keep from jabbing him in the ribs, and the tip of the scabbard jammed against the wood.

His muscles were still ﬁghting off their lassitude. He wrestled with his swordbelt as he tried to catch up his shield at the same time, stumbling ingloriously off the wagon seat. At the last minute, he caught himself in a stagger as he ﬁnally drew his sword at last, jerking his  shield up in time to block a stray swipe.

Jenna had already started to dig into the undead, abandoning her saddle in favor of close combat. Her blades had  come out, with sword and dagger at the ready in ﬂorentine style.  Three against one didn't displease her; the odds only drew a ferocious  grin across her face. "Come on, then!" she yelled, spinning her longsword around to bat at the eager talons of one of the ghouls. "I've been waiting for some sport _all day!_ "

Liasin was not so enthusiastic. The draft horses were snorting in distaste, rolling their eyes as they lifted their hooves in shallow stomps -- but they were not panicking, which was a saving grace with undead so close by. The two ghouls were circling to the back of the wagon, clawing deep furrows in the wood as they sought to clamber up. Liasin knocked the ﬁrst loose with a smack of his shield; the second snarled as it whirled to meet him, lifting its deformed hands like an angry child.

He hesitated. With the effects of his weakness still lingering, it  was all too easy to imagine the pain that drove the creatures. Their bodies were decaying around them; any living intelligence had either gone animalistic with hunger, or might be suffering at the degradation inﬂicted upon it. There were only two ways to solve the problem: destroy the ghouls, or feed them. Either might be only a temporary ﬁx.

Jenna's blades were scattering afterimages of molten light as the enchantments on her weapons came to life.  In his hand, Lethargy was cool and dormant. He shifted it restlessly as he twisted around, blocking both ghouls as he whispered a quick prayer to the Light. The burst of an exorcism answered him; Liasin followed it grimly with a thrust of his sword, blocking out his own  thoughts through the mercy of simple combat.

Despite the higher number against her, Jenna ﬁnished before he  did. She announced her victory casually, cutting in between him and the remaining ghoul; the edge of her blade cut into the undead's throat, joined by her dagger with her full weight behind it. The decaying spine snapped. The ghoul's head tumbled away, rolling off the path into the high grasses. Its body lurched, and then crumbled into inert bones.

Jenna set her boot ﬁrmly on the tattered lump of the ghoul's shoulder, pressing hard until it crunched. Yanking a soiled oilcloth from a pouch, she wiped and sheathed her dagger without looking down. "Your eyes -- you looked like you were falling asleep back there." Pawing back her sweaty bangs, she cocked her head towards him. "Did you slip up and use Naptime on yourself?"

" _ Lethargy, _ " he said, stressing the name, "is ﬁne. Even though I use a mace, I still know how to hold a sword, Jenna."

She glanced towards the blade still in his hand; he resisted the urge to hide the weapon behind him, stained with the clotted blood of the ghouls. "Maybe you should use it more often. After all," she continued sardonically, "what good is it doing, rusting away in its scabbard? Might as well not have it at all."

He groaned. "Don't you start too. It's bad enough from the Vics."

Striking her scabbard against her leg, Jenna wiped and sheathed her sword. She snapped her ﬁngers to call her horse -- which ignored her -- and sighed dolorously as she headed over to fetch it. "Incidentally, Liasin, I couldn't help but notice that there's a fourth corpse in the wagon."

"Don't worry," he said reassuringly. "I'm paying for that one myself." 

" _ Four, _ " Jenna repeated. "No wonder you attracted hungry mouths."

"I suppose it was a good thing you were here with me to defend them."

Hauling herself into the saddle, the woman twitched the reins over her legs. "So what  _ was  _ that all about? Did they bespell you?"

He forced a smile. Jenna had been aware of his bad times since childhood; he'd given up on trying to explain them to her, weary of her scorn, and had passed them off as incidental for years. "Just dizzy. You know how I get sometimes."

She scrutinized him with skeptical eyes that knew he was lying. Rather than argue, however, she let her displeasure ease. "You and your weak stomach, Liasin. If I hadn't been here, you'd probably be dead now, caught staring off at the sky like that."

"If you weren't here, I could have headed towards the Monastery roads instead." Clambering back onto the seat of the deadwagon, Liasin cast an eye over the corpses in the back. Luckily, none of them seemed disturbed. The smell was becoming worse; he'd have to treat the canvas with another dose of ghost mushroom, as precious as the oil was. "The only problem is, after all the trouble you caused, I can't go  _ near  _ those routes now."

"They had a reason to hate you before that," she retorted brutally, "when you took their playtoys away."

He ﬂinched. The recoil was as instinctive as if she had hit him. The snap brought his face away. Turning his back on her was  childish, but he did not know how else to react. He felt strained all over, exhausted after the grip of empathy that had wrung him out before battle. Fighting  the ghouls had been hard enough. He lacked the stamina to be peaceable.

Misinterpreting his exhaustion for anger, Jenna cleared her throat. "Look, I'm sorry I keep bringing this up. I'm no good at this. Just -- just grow a thicker  _ skin,  _ William."

"We can stop talking about this any time now," he informed her coldly. " _ You  _ were the one who started it."

They rode in mutual silence for a time, each one keeping to their own sullen side of the path. The draft horses resumed their steady pace, quick to recover once the ghouls were no longer a threat. Gradually, the Plaguewood rolled past, its withered trees jutting through the bloated mushroom caps like ribs in a swelling corpse.

It was Jenna who made the ﬁrst attempt to smooth matters over. "I'm thinking about not renewing my contract when it's up," she announced suddenly as they rounded the path into the hills, horses picking through the stubbled grasses.

Liasin did not twist around in surprise. He was used to her graceless confessions; ever since she'd been a gangly little girl chasing him down abbey lanes, she'd been awkward about personal truths. "Why not?"

"The Brigade hasn't remained competitive. We have too many new recruits who are just plain  _ terrible _ , but who complain if they're not brought along, even if they're only contracted for support. Because we have to play nice with them -- because we have to be  _ considerate  _ \-- we're losing our edge. How many ruined bounties have we seen lately? How many ﬁghts  _ should  _ we have claimed, only to be tripped up by a well- meaning, but  _ incompetent  _ ﬁghter? Once, we were the ﬁrst ones  _ anywhere. We  _ broke the ﬁrst ground. Now we've been spinning in circles. I hate failing. I hate getting peeled off the ﬂoor by the priests. Also," she added grudgingly, "I hate Lynnae."

Liasin studied a scuff on his gauntlets. "Would Blackwind let you go?"

"It's not like he could force me to stay. My contract renews every six months. No penalty to wages, no dishonorable discharge -- so if I want to leave, I can. What about yours?"

"Until terminated."

Her ire exploded; lacking anything else save her horse, she slapped her palms against her legs in a disgusted jangle of chainmail. Her horse twitched an ear. "Why would you  _ do  _ something as stupid as that? A guild is just a guild. It's not a  _ lifetime commitment. _ "

The answer was simple. He knew she wouldn't like it. "Because Blackwind asked me, Jenna."

" _ Unbelievable. _ " She repeated the gesture,  elaborating on it with a creative insult of her ﬁngers. "So you'll just keep working for him until they choose to let you go -- or until you die, because  _ William Liasin  _ would never just break a guild contract dishonorably,  _ would he? _ "

Liasin absorbed her anger silently, feeling the wagon's vibrations ripple up from the wheels, echoing the plodding of the horses. "I know it's frustrating watching us perform so poorly," he remarked after a while. "But the Brigade's always been tolerant of its supporting members. It's what keeps us from being like the Vics."

"Yes," Jenna agreed, her voice ﬂat and hard. "It  _ is. _ "   


 


	7. Chapter 6

They heard Light's  Hope Chapel before they saw it.  What had once been a remote cathedral buried in the Plaguelands had transformed overnight with the arrival of Naxxramas. Every guild  imaginable had gathered to try and dare the Citadel's walls. Some guilds had been formed simply due to Naxxramas itself. The cathedral hadn't had room to hold them all. Slowly, the guilds had expanded until tents  lined the hills and nudged the sickly trees of the Plaguewood, entombing themselves slowly underneath coatings of mushroom spores. Adventurers trickled out; their shouted conversations peppered the woods, along with  the clang of repair anvils and the crackle of dueling spells.

"The Oldmoon rates may be going up, but they're still the most reliable," Liasin told Jenna as he slowed the wagon to let a pair of hunters pass.

She had started complaining ever since the peak of the Chapel had come into view, and hadn't stopped. "I guess they've succeeded in cornering the market. I'm surprised the Delisers didn't invest in that ﬁeld ﬁrst."

Jenna was less than enthused. "If they had, Slowfoot would be a lot less grumpy, and we could all retire rich today. Do I  _ really  _ have to negotiate with the Parlor?" she wheedled, switching tacks with the grace of an experienced procrastinator.

Liasin sighed. The path clear once more, he nudged the wagon forward. "Read the heraldry for me. If I take my eyes off the horses, I swear I'll run over someone."

She obliged, shifting her swords as she leaned her weight in  the saddle to get a better look at the banners around them. The pommels dug into her waist. "Blue and white, lightning bolt in the center. That's Storm- something, isn't it?"

"StormLine. Anyone else?"

"Next to them is the letter C underneath a tent," she reported dutifully. "Purple on black."

"Waning crescent underneath a roof," Liasin corrected. "Good. The Parlor's here. Try to ﬁnd their representative while I go to see if the Dawn's pit is full."

She pulled a sneer, halfway hoping that he might yet change his mind. "The Parlor's a bunch of thieves. I've never met one who didn't try to steal a kill, claim an ore vein, or yank some rare  _ weed  _ out from underneath my very feet."

"They're also the best options we have for getting the dead back home." Liasin did not sound swayed. "What color is the cord?"

Squinting at the crescent mark, Jenna spotted the signal rope that hung like a lash across the curve of the moon. "Blue."

"Then they have someone here. You're not off the hook."

They wound the deadwagon slowly through the tents -- Liasin steering in careful stops and starts, Jenna dancing her horse around clumps of adventurers too lazy to move -- until they reached the banner pole that had been driven into the ground to mark the Brigade's rented territory. There, she roped her horse up beside the wagon, conﬁdent enough that the beast would not be stolen. Her companion for  the last two years, Jenna had saved the mare from the knackers in Menethil several years back, nicknaming her  _ Flea  _ in a ﬁt of pique after  an afternoon spent picking mites out of the saddle. In exchange for the kindness, Flea had promptly gained threefold times the pests. The one good thing about the mare's ill temper was that she could  be trusted to defend herself from any would-be thieves as avidly as she resisted Jenna as a passenger.

Behind her, Jenna could hear Liasin struggling with the roster check. "Blackwind's Brigade, under 'L.' Yes, except that it's pronounced  _ Lee-asin.  _ William Liasin, here with Jenna All-Bright."

_ Will lie and sin,  _ she thought to herself with amusement, remembering the joke that had roamed for months around the Brigade before Blackwind could stamp it out.  _ Lie and sin.  _ Stretching, she surveyed the camps  lazily. The standards mixed and mingled together. A  few of them were manned by supply officers that had been  sent back to restock for their guilds, while others were stationed as rally points for latecomers along the far perimeter of the camp. Scanning the colors, she found over half to be familiar. The rest blurred together in  a clutter of mismatched shapes, like a ﬂock of crazed roosters trying to outdo one another in plumage.

All the major guilds were pitching their coins in the ring, hoping to conquer Naxxramas -- even as the ﬁght against Ahn'Qiraj continued to rage. The more expansive guilds that could afford portals were attempting both battlefronts, overtaxing mages to tear holes between the continents and ferry supplies and manpower. Warlocks made a healthy trade summoning stragglers from point to point. Innkeepers everywhere were becoming rich.

Among them, the Brigade's standard hung doggedly on its racking pole, having survived any attempts at defacement while the guild was on the march. A yellow cord was draped over the front, signifying the absence of any representatives. Absently, she reached up and found the blue one, ﬂipping it across instead.

When Liasin rejoined her, she said, "The matron gave you a terrible name."

"Only around people with nothing better to do than make crude jokes," he replied, not missing a beat. Noticing the cant of her gaze, he glanced around. "Anyone else show up?"

"The usual. The Vics, the Truesilver Arms, Fire Everlasting. There's a new guild claiming to be the next big shots on the ﬁeld, the _real_ champions of the Alliance," she added, hauling out the overnight gear from the supply crates stacked beside the banner. The Brigade paid for enough ground to ﬁt a tent and wagon during the guild's absences, allowing room for provisioners and stragglers -- but not luxury. "'Fortis Eternalum.'"

Liasin mouthed the name in bewilderment as he moved to assist her. "What does that even  _ mean? _ "

"No idea. I'll pass the news over to Blackwind -- I don't know if he'll enjoy telling the Vics more, or just letting them ﬁnd out for themselves."

The makeshift camp took only a short time to assemble, Liasin working smoothly beside Jenna in practiced tandem. As they ﬁnished stretching the canvas down in a half-tent from the deadwagon's side, voices rose angrily along the path. A refurbished  supply cart trundled past; its riders were jeering at the other guilds, making rude, indiscriminate gestures. Their ragtag armor was patched by leather scraps. A stained yellow banner hung doggedly from the cart's side; the insignia had been crudely painted on, rather than stitched from cloth.  If Jenna squinted, the pattern almost looked like a kite shield with a sword laid across it. Otherwise, it could have been an apple, or a dying balloon. Potentially, it was a murloc.

"Golden Guard," Liasin said under his breath; it was as guttural as a curse. He shook his head in dismay. "I don't know what they hope to accomplish up here."

Jenna skirted her gaze towards him. "Weren't  _ you  _ in the Golden Guard once?"

He ﬂushed predictably at her teasing. "It was a long time ago. I was younger then."

"It was last  _ year,  _ Liasin."

"It was a  _ long time, _ " he insisted, tossing  aside the remainder of the ropes in loose coils while she broke into silent laughter behind him.

By the time she had ﬁnished unrolling the bedding, Liasin had disappeared. She hunted him down through the crowd to the message board tacked beside the mailbox. Light's Hope had staked out  their notices on a wide wooden plank alongside the hill that ran up to the chapel. The board was overﬂowing with clutter as people nailed up their recruitment ﬂyers, their entreaties for aid, and scribbled notes to one another for all to see. Handwriting crossed the pages like warring spiderwebs; comments crawled over memos, coupled with personal signatures and thumbprints for  authenticity. Jenna only gave the scraps of paper an arbitrary glance; she had no one to correspond with, and -- as far as she knew -- no one who wanted to look for her.

Liasin had already ﬁnished collecting the packages for the Brigade, but was remaining to watch the crowd. An opened envelope was pinched between his ﬁngers. He was running his thumb down the spine of the bundled packages, aligning them together in a stack. Liasin handled letters the same way that librarians did their books: with a gentleness, an affection, as if the messages were living beings to respect instead of inanimate objects. He touched most things that way, when he thought no one else was looking; Jenna had once caught him stroking a tea set.

She hesitated near the path, unwilling to intrude on the moment. Whenever Liasin was happy,  _ really  _ happy, a small, crooked smile would creep over his mouth -- and would vanish in an instant, as if he didn't dare to show such honesty to others. From where she was standing, it looked as if one was starting to appear.

Then he glanced up and noticed her, catching himself. His smile broadened, looking more enthusiastic, but his eyes became guarded once more.

He slid a different envelope out of the mix and extended it towards her as she crossed the path towards him, wedging the ﬁrst one back into the stack. "A letter from your parents. I wonder if they're ﬁnally asking you to come home and be respectable."

She snatched the entire bundle from him;  he grinned, empty-handed, and settled down on the slope of the shallow hill. A packet came  up ﬁrst as she searched for Liasin's letter. "Next on the agenda," she read aloud, "invoices for Coppershine from Deliser. Probably charging  us for wear and tear on the horseshoes used to bring us our rations. That man is  _ terrifying. _ "

"But he keeps us legal." Leaning forward as she ﬁnally discovered the opened correspondence, Liasin plucked his letter away before she could riﬂe through it. Seeing her lean nosily towards him, he ﬂapped the paper dismissively. "A few paladins from other guilds are trying to get together next month and speak about types of strategies that we've found useful while healing. They sent out invitations to see who would be able to attend."

Jenna shuffled the packages in her hands, peering at him over the edge of their brown butcher paper wrappings. "Will you go?"

Liasin sighed, folding the envelope into a neat square and tucking it away. "I'd like to. I don't know how much new information I have to contribute, but I'm interested if anyone has fresh insights. Sammal's on the list as well. He  and I agree on the use of weaker incantations to use in harmony with those of priests and druids, rather than wasting energies in competition to see who can cast the largest spells ﬁrst. I'm curious to hear what he has to say."

At the mention of the other guild's paladin, Jenna frowned. "Don't let Blackwind know you're fraternizing with the enemy."

Liasin shook his head. "Guild lines shouldn't  keep us from developing our skills. We're all paladins -- we should _all_ try to help each other. We're capable of powerful things with the Light, and even  if we have to resort to enchantments or armor that _aren't_ traditional, if it helps us get the job done, then shouldn't we use them?" The sudden burst of passion turned him restless; he shook his head again,  agitated. "How can we let _pride_ get in the way of _helping_ people? Isn't our most important duty to protect others, regardless of what role we happen to be fulﬁlling at the time? If healing is what's needed, then we should heal. If it's to cleanse the wounds of the injured, then _that's_ what we should  attend to. Shouldn't we be willing to do _whatever is necessary,_ even _if_ it  means  we may  not earn personal glory? Even if it's not something we would take pride in?"

A small knot of paladins had gathered near notice board. As Liasin's speech picked up in intensity, they turned around, narrowing their eyes in his direction. Jenna didn't recognize their colors.

"Listen to this fellow," one of them scoffed, loud enough to cut Liasin's diatribe short. "Sounds just like another priest faker, doesn't he?"

"I wonder why," Liasen replied evenly.

Their reaction was mixed. Several paladins smirked in scorn. Then one of them pointed at the Brigade mark on Liasin's tabard, whispering.

Immediately, the mood shifted. The man who had criticized ﬁrst fell silent with an ugly, sullen cant to his jaw. A few hesitated, looking as if they wanted to come forward and speak, but the result was ﬁnal: the knot of people broke up. Liasin touched his brow brieﬂy in what Jenna recognized as exasperation. Any relaxation he had harbored had vanished; he only looked weary again.

"I'll bring the mail back for you," she promised. "And go talk to the Parlor. Take the afternoon off."

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "Thank you."   
  


* * *

 

As the crowd dispersed, Liasin watched, marking faces to memory. It had not been the ﬁrst time he'd encountered hostility while expressing his perspective. He knew it would not be the last. Two of the paladins gave him respectful nods of recognition; he offered the same back. The others drifted away.

One man was revealed lingering on the sidelines. He  had not been part of the hecklers, but stood apart from the rest of the crowd, with no companions by his side. He wore no tabard or waist sash that might have identiﬁed his affiliation. His armor was composed of unmatched plate that looked as if it had been pieced from the spares of an armory. The libram that was bound to his belt was easily overlooked, thin and battered, hanging in place by worn leather strapping.

Liasin wasn't certain why the man had struck his notice. Amidst the cacophony of travelers that ﬂooded Light's Hope, the stranger looked no different from any transient. His hair was a sandy brown that was peppered liberally with grey strands. A spear had been  lashed to his back, crossing a shield and travel pack.

_ Another newcomer hoping to be taken on by any guild that will have him,  _ Liasin thought ﬁrst, and then berated himself. It wasn't fair of him to judge based on armor alone, or to assume motivations.

He tried to look away, silently apologizing to whatever Light might be listening, but his chin only jerked a fraction when he told it to move. His attention seemed stitched to the other man. His eyes felt locked in place.

Then, as if sensing Liasin's gaze, the stranger turned his head suddenly and looked back.

Hazel eyes met blue. Across the distance, Liasin could not determine their intent. The man's weathered features looked expressionless, masked by a short beard and scruff. Then some invisible balance shifted; a crease appeared between the man's eyebrows as he furrowed them, equally perplexed.

"Kobolds and candles!" A woman's voice broke in. "Liasin, is that you? It's been too long!"

Turning at the shout, Liasin spotted another paladin making her way towards him. Keldrin was her name; stout for a human and dark-haired, she was dressed in the blue and white of StormLine. They had met early on during each of their travels, giving one  another assistance before guild business had inevitably drawn them onto separate roads. Every now and then, their territories overlapped, but with decreasing frequency; the last time he'd seen her was near Scholomance.

He embraced her brieﬂy, their armor scraping in protest before he released her and clapped her on the back. "Blackwind keeps me busy.  _ You  _ look as if you've been making a name for yourself. Your gear may have seen better days, however," he noticed affectionately, studying her at arm's length and counting the scuffs that marred the craftsmanship. The history of extended campaigns was written out in the composition of her armor, forged from dark iron metals and imbued steel. Keldrin was young, but no one looking at her equipment would imagine she was a novice to battle.

She dusted pollen off her cloak with the back of her hand, laughing. "The dents give it character. That's my excuse, at least. I just came from the blacksmiths -- they said the waiting list is too long to ﬁt me in for repairs before my big meeting."

"Oh?"

She slowly ran her ﬁngers over her cloak again, drawing out the moment before she ﬁnally answered. "The Vic recruitment officer contacted  me last week. She said they'd heard good things about me, and wanted to have a meeting to discuss some... opportunities."

Despite his best attempt at neutrality, Liasin couldn't help arching his eyebrows. Smoothing his expression over, he nodded his head towards the Plaguewood. "If you wanted to speak with them, you might want to head towards Naxxramas. We passed them on the way over."

Keldrin's eyes ﬂicked mischievously to the side. "Well," she confessed reluctantly, "this isn't exactly a  _ public  _ meeting. Let's just say that I'm here on personal time."

He took the cue, turning them away from the notice board and  leading the conversation into the trees. The buzz of the crowd faded to a hum; the chirp of insects ﬁltered in to replace it. Once they were safely alone, he turned to study her, this time evaluating what he saw with a sterner eye. "StormLine will hate to lose you."

"They won't." Keldrin's voice was certain. "The Vics would have to give a  _ really  _ good offer to buy out my guild contract. I doubt I'm worth that much to them -- unfortunately." She reached out, tracing the rosette of knotted cloth that sat on the shoulder of his tabard. "I see you made officer."

"You mean I  _ refused  _ officer, and Blackwind made me the paladin captain in revenge."

A thin smile surfaced and vanished on her lips, turning like a ﬁsh. "I still have that libram you lent me, back in Stranglethorn," she said, changing the subject. "'A Solitary Light in the Mountains.' Here," she continued, unclipping the book from her side. The chains clattered as she unthreaded them from the libram's rings. "Sorry about the, ah, chew marks. One of our hunter's pets got hold of it before I could catch them."

He accepted the damaged book with bemusement. "Don't worry. I'm sure its value can only be enhanced by proof of its ﬂavor. Listen, Keldrin -- "

She shook her head to silence him, forstalling any protests. "Some of us have to take our options where we can, Liasin. Besides, they offered to buy me dinner. I can't  pass up a free meal!" Her attempt at humor died as swiftly as her smile. "Who knows -- maybe I'll see you again soon, out where the  _ real  _ action is. Save some glory for me, all right?"

Before he could ﬁgure out what to say back in response, she clasped his arm awkwardly. Her grip loosened after only a moment; she was no longer meeting his eyes. He watched as she trudged away, the hem of her cloak swaying around her boots as she waded through the clumps of withered grass. The insect staccato creaked into the silence she left behind.

"Don't do it," he whispered aloud. Her shape was becoming smaller and smaller in the crowd. "Don't join them."

"You don't think she should be allowed to choose?"

Startled, Liasin jerked his head around. The voice was unfamiliar; the human it emanated from stepped into view across the clearing. As the shadows peeled back, they revealed mismatched armor, light brown hair, and a steady gaze. The man's steps were measured, unhurried. Though there were no longer any weapons visible on him, he moved with the conﬁdence of a person who did not feel as if they had  anything to fear, and no reason to enforce a threat.

_ It's him again,  _ Liasin realized.  _ The stranger from back at the message board. _

"My pardons, sir," he offered cordially to  the man, reservation keeping the politeness crisp. It was awkward to be caught -- both for Keldrin, and  for himself. The last thing either of them needed was gossip that could incite mischief between the guilds. "It's not  jealousy, though I'm sure some would have you believe as much. Even though the Victorious don't get along with my guild, they respect paladins decently. I just hope she'll be happy where she ends up -- and I'm not sure she's like the rest of the Vics. But if it's what makes her happy, then that's what I'd want for her. Despite my misgivings."

The answer seemed to satisfy the man. He stepped further into the clearing, stopping when he was face-to-face with Liasin. He moved quietly enough; the lack of ornate platemail served to his advantage, not giving off warning sounds of metal sliding against metal. "I apologize for eavesdropping. My name is Granden. I couldn't help but hear your talk about healing, and wanted to ask you about it. Is that a common role for paladins these days?"

Mention of the topic instantly put Liasin on familiar territory; almost immediately, he felt himself relaxing. Still, the sudden shift of the man's questioning might only be meant to put him at ease before an attempt to dig for more information. Manipulation  or not, he accepted the possibility with resignation. "Depends on the paladin. We all disagree now, it seems like -- about what paladins should and shouldn't do."

The din of the campgrounds rose and fell in the distance. As if memory tugged at  him, Granden glanced back towards the Chapel. "I remember it used to be laughable, whenever a paladin would stand back instead of wade into the front line."

"Most people still mock us when we claim we're capable of healing. Most paladins as well. 'Protectors of the Light.'" The laugh that came out of Liasin was bitter, raw. "We have so much to offer, if only they'd be willing to  _ see.  _ Protecting something doesn't just mean hitting things with a stick."

"But sometimes that stick is needed." Granden's head came back around, ﬁxing a steady gaze upon Liasin again. "Healing alone hasn't ﬁxed the Plaguelands. Look at this land."

"Yes,  _ look  _ at this land." Liasin's hand snapped towards the ground. The words burst out hotly; it was a struggle not to let passion launch him into another speech. "The earth is trying to return to what it used to be, while some forms of life have adapted and found an equilibrium. How can a person choose between them? When does ﬁnding a cure become destroying what's managed to survive? At what point do we decide to ignore all the efforts of that which has fought to ﬁnd  _ new  _ life here, in favor of what  _ we  _ think it should become?" He caught himself suddenly, realizing he had failed to keep from another lecture. Morose, he clenched his teeth until he mastered his tongue. "I'm sorry. Are you -- are you also here to seek battle with Naxxramas?"

The question hung between them. Then the man broke into a chuckle, unexpectedly warm. "And what would Naxxramas have to do with the likes of me? No. I don't get involved in things anymore. This world gets along just ﬁne without my efforts."

"Some would call that cold."

"They have a right to say it." His calm as impenetrable as a shield, Granden lifted a ﬁnger brieﬂy in warning. "If it's one thing, boy, stick to what you believe in, even if all the world condemns you for it. Should you waver, then hope you have allies who can help you remember what you want most -- whatever that may be."

It was simple enough advice.  _ Too simple,  _ Liasin thought.  _ Too tempting.  _ Wariness ﬂared brieﬂy inside him, ﬁghting against his own inclinations towards openness. To buy time, he turned the angle of the conversation around. "Is that how you do it?"

"Me?" The corner of the man's mouth pinched wryly in a smile. "I don't have allies."

"No guild at all, then? Not joining the Dawn?"

The breeze stirred as Granden kept silent, taking his time in  answering. A nearby mushroom shivered and expelled a fresh cloud of dust.

Granden did not ﬂinch from it as the powder settled around him, drifting down like a handful of copper-tainted ﬂour. "Follow what your heart tells you, and you get creatures like Arthas. Follow someone else's guidance, and you get the poor soldiers who died under his banner. Even trying to ﬁnd a course at all is  suspect, because it relies on either your judgment or someone else's to tell you if you've strayed. The only salvation," the man suggested quietly, "lies in doubt and self-questioning. But it takes suppressing doubt to ﬁnd the courage to change anything, for good or for bad. So where is the balance?"

The logic was unforgiving. It was also familiar. Liasin felt an echo of it stirring treacherously in his own thoughts. More than  once, he had veered towards impossible standards in his own frustrated debates, and had always shied away. Confronted by possibilities that could be laid out  so starkly, Liasin found he did not want to consider them directly. "Even the Brotherhood of the Light admits that they themselves follow extremes," he murmured instead, touching his temple and resisting the urge to cover his face. "The Scarlets and the Brotherhood. Two  sides of the same coin, with the same goal, brought together like this against the Scourge. And when ﬁre ﬁghts ﬁre, we all get burned."

Granden acknowledged the conclusion with a nod of his head. "In  my eyes, both factions are crazy -- but in theirs, I lack spirit.  I won't be staying here long. No, it's the open road for me. Will you be returning to the front?"

"As soon as I ﬁgure out what to do  with the bodies." Shelving his troubled thoughts for later, Liasin sighed and waved back towards the cacophony of banners peeking through the distorted forest. "Three of them are paid for by the guild, and have families to return to. It's the fourth's that's a problem -- she's a Scarlet. I'm not sure where to send her. The Parlor gives me a discount if I use Darkshire, so a  _ discount  _ determines where she ends up." Disgust ﬂavored his voice, self- recrimination pitted against his own acceptance  of being limited by funds. He checked himself, this time succeeding in tempering his nerves. "Our commander once said, 'this war is fought by mercenaries.' We're recognized by the law through signing guild  charters, but the only true law we follow is that of our ﬁnances. This is a war fought by  _ pocketbook. _ "

The accusation was more resigned than condemning. It fell and was swallowed among the  _ chirrup  _ of insects; their song had grown bolder, until it rang like a chorus of broken bells. Dusk was sneaking in. The sun had begun to creep away. The gleam of distant campﬁres leaked a warm glow through the woods, a seeping haze that invited stragglers to come in for rest.

Nodding towards the Chapel, Liasin ﬁnished bitterly. "We ﬁght against Naxxramas, we ﬁght against the Black Dragonﬂight  and the Silithids, but in reality we're ﬁghting most against each other. If there wasn't a chance of glory or reward, half these people wouldn't even  _ be  _ here. We live from bounty to bounty, from task to task -- stealing treasures from whatever caches we can ﬁnd and calling it the rightful spoils of victory. Meanwhile, those who seek our aid have to scramble for the  gold to tempt us to come in the ﬁrst place."

Granden did not seem disgusted by the summary. "Yet, that's the world we live in now," he countered. "Ever since the Third War."

"Then it's a world where our enemies break bread with us at the dinner table -- and where we have no reason to help a stranger on the road."

"Help a stranger?" Trailing off there, Granden glanced away as if  stung. The corners of his mouth twitched in what looked suspiciously like  a wince. "Compassion is supposed to be practiced by the wise, to know when it should not be extended." The words came out like hesitant soldiers, lining themselves up one by one. There was no passion behind them, no determination -- only a rote recitation, spoken by a believer who might have reason to fail their own doctrine.  "Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is not to help at all. Sometimes, that's... best."

The sudden break in Granden's calm came like lightning; he had not lifted his voice, but his body language was as good as a shout. Another man might have seized upon the vulnerability. Liasin let it pass. Granden's shoulders had tensed; Liasin felt his impulses bend towards wanting to patch over any strife he might have inadvertently caused. He forced out a rueful laugh. "Then I'm not a very good paladin, I suppose."

Despite Liasin's attempt at downplaying the moment, Granden's head turned sharply. The gaze he leveled upon Liasin was astonished. Though he tried his best to decipher meaning  in the other man's face, Liasin could not guess at how such a simple phrase could have earned such a reaction.

He stared back, helpless, waiting for a cue on what to say next.

"This Scarlet of yours," Granden said at last. "May I have a look at her?"   
  


* * *

 

They followed a less congested route back to the  Brigade tent, cutting past gnarled trees and overenthusiastic mushrooms as they circled the campground. Liasin led the way, brushing aside ferns whose delicate leaves were weighed down by fungal welts. Something about the other paladin bothered him, nipping at his attention. It was strange; he did not feel threatened by the stranger, but neither did he feel comfortable. They traveled in silence, each one keeping to their own thoughts.

_ I've never seen him before,  _ he wondered.  _ Have I? _

The answer had to be no. But there was something about Granden that hounded Liasin's attention; he guessed that Granden sensed it as well, because Liasin noticed furtive, troubled glances from time to time.

Liasin's instincts did not provide him with any insight either. The compulsions that rode him were split between wanting to offer up total honesty -- and to withdraw at the same time, as  an animal might ﬂee upon sensing the mass of a predator in waiting. The combination left Liasin's wits snarled. Ill at ease, he mulled over what he had observed so far.

The nature of Granden's words warred with the man's appearance. The familiarity that he showed with doctrine -- with the same kinds of philosophy that Liasin had argued for hours over with the priests -- implied a lengthy bout of service with the Church, but the lack of guild mark and the simpler armor did not. A paladin that had fallen from grace might have turned his back on all his beliefs, thrown his libram away rather than allow one to hang at his side. A paladin who still served the Light would have no reason to be ashamed of it.

Back at the deadwagon, the banner stood silent watch. Jenna was nowhere to be seen. The blue signal cord slapped gently against the pole in time with the breeze. So far, there had been no messages pinned to the banner; if Liasin was lucky, no one would notice their presence, and he and Jenna could ﬂip the cord back to yellow and escape.

Four lumps waited inside their makeshift shrouds. None of them seemed disturbed. Giving them a cursory glance, Liasin grasped the edge of the canvas blanket, waiting for Granden to join him before pulling it back.

Days on the road had caught up with all the corpses. Rot had quickly infested the sopping ﬂesh, blistering and rupturing the tissues. Discolored patches of skin pulled back from teeth; identity was vanishing under the invasion of decay. The smell had  been masked by liberal douses of ghost mushroom oil, but it wafted free as Liasin lifted the canvas further up, revealing more of the four bodies. Most of the insects had been warded away by packing bundles of silversage twigs between the corpses, but a few ﬂies had braved their way inside; they buzzed in protest as they were exposed, rising like ﬂecks of  ash before settling once more.

"Do you recognize her?" he asked Granden, halfway wondering if Scarlet membership was the heart of the man's strange behavior.

But Liasin's hopes were fruitless. The other man shook his head. "No."

Straightening the canvas in his hands, Liasin began to pull it back over the corpses once more. As he did, however, Granden stepped forward, touching his wrist to halt him.

"If she's a paladin, she expected her brothers and sisters to be here to honor her passing. Instead, she has us. May I pay her the respects deserving of one?"

Folding the covering back, Liasin extended his hand in invitation. "Go ahead," he answered quietly, regarding Granden with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

If Granden sensed the expectation, he did not take offense. Waiting respectfully until Liasin had backed away, the man inclined his head to study the Scarlet. "I would give you ﬂowers for her corpse, but I'm out of proper ones to give," he explained. "A few circles  use Tears as a token for one paladin to another. You know the ones I mean, I assume."

" _ Arthas'  _ Tears?" Surprised, Liasin jerked his head in a nod. "I've seen them before. But -- I'm sorry. I don't understand. Why -- "

"Why, when they're named after such a cursed prince?" Granden ﬁnished for him, turning away from the corpse to face  Liasin directly. "It's said that some part of the young paladin's soul survives, and weeps over the monster he has become. So the ﬂowers symbolize mourning by us -- for what could have been, and for what has been lost. As I said, some circles use them. It's not common."

His mind racing, Liasin attempted to recall everything he had heard of the plant. The violet ﬂowers did not have many medicinal applications. If they had, he would have heard demands for them from the other healers before -- and all they had mentioned was that it could be brewed to strengthen a person's resistance, and to cause a minor disease.  _ Necromancy? But a paladin shouldn't be involved in that -- unless he's lying about being one.  _ "I haven't heard of that practice before," he admitted. "Who uses such a thing?"

Granden watched him for a long, steady moment before answering. "Certain survivors of the Silver Hand."

Liasin swallowed. "Oh," he said, feeling abashed -- abashed and ashamed, as the quirks of Granden's behavior fell suddenly into place. A veteran of the Third War would have enough reasons to keep to their own privacy. Too, they would have more than a fair share of jadedness.  _ And here I am, preaching to  _ **_him_ ** _ about battleﬁelds,  _ he realized with dismay. "I'm sorry. I've been rude. I haven't given my name yet," he blurted, throwing aside the rest of his hesitation. "William Liasin. It's an honor to meet you."

Shaking his head, Granden dismissed the lapse. "There's no rudeness. I didn't ask." A long sigh came out of him; as if the admission had broken some resistance of his own, Granden leaned back against the cart, his shoulders slumping wearily. He ﬁshed at the throat of his armor with his ﬁngers. Two slender metal chains slipped free from  the collar of his shirt, pinched between his ﬁngers as he untangled them from around his neck. A golden circle swung from one, catching the waning sunlight -- a ring, Liasin realized, before Granden tucked it back away.

From the second chain hung a ﬂat silver toggle, no bigger than Liasin's thumb. It was not a work of ﬁne craftsmanship; the wad of stamped metal appeared to be left over from a jeweler's casting, inscribed crudely with an array of clumped lines. The pattern looked like a child's scrawl, a rough sketch of petals and stems.

Moving briskly, Granden pulled the chain free over his head, and presented it to Liasin for closer examination. "I'm out of live ﬂowers, but maybe this will help her rest," he explained. "It's my own burial wreath. I've been carrying it with me, so that I'll be ready if I'm killed upon the road. This can watch over her for the both of us. If I can, I'll send some living Tears to her grave later."

"Thank you." Surprised by the unexpected generosity, Liasin handed the pendant back. "It doesn't bother you at all that she was a Scarlet?"

Granden bent forward over the woman's body as he lifted her skull, disturbing her as little as possible as he pulled the chain carefully around her neck. "Why should it?" Life had entered his voice again, lacing it with gruff amusement. "Such was the path that she chose. If I can't honor that, I shouldn't be helping to bury her in the ﬁrst place. Does it bother  _ you? _ "

The question was simple for Liasin to address. "No. Even though there was -- is -- strife between them and myself, they're still people. I'm not ignorant -- I've seen things that they've done. I know what they're capable of." He left his position suddenly, crossing over to the deadwagon to stand beside Granden. "But she's dead now, defenseless. Someone should try to take care of her. Even if her spirit is safely gone," he continued, reaching down to touch his ﬁngers carefully to the corpse's forehead, "we can still be kind to her memory." His voice felt hushed. He inclined his head towards Granden. "You have my thanks for honoring a stranger."

His solemnity was not shared by the other paladin. "It's easy to honor her. She's  _ dead, _ " Granden remarked pointedly. " _ You're  _ not -- not yet, but listening to you talk tells me that something's wrong. So tell me. What's killing you, boy?"

Taken aback by the direct thrust of Granden's question, Liasin blinked. "I'm -- no. I'm sorry. Nothing," he protested automatically. "Nothing."

A skeptical grunt came from the other man. He ﬁnished securing the pendant, stretching the canvas back over the bodies once more. "Respect, Tenacity, and Compassion," he voiced suddenly once the shroud was back in place. "Something tells me that you're struggling with one of those three, and I don't think it's Tenacity. Why is a man such as yourself so concerned with someone who would try to harm you, if were she still alive?"

Liasin stiﬂed a wince. Now that he knew the nature of Granden's past, it was harder to deny the man his request. Granden's claim to former membership with the Silver Hand might have been a lie -- but even  if it was, the bleakness that ran like a current beneath the man's words remained. It struck Liasin's nerves, tugging on them as surely as a bridle might yank on a horse. Closing his eyes brieﬂy, he resigned himself to confession.

"I mourn for our opponents even as I ﬁght," he admitted. Just speaking the truth scraped him raw. "It's driving me mad with grief."

"Compassion, then." The man's mouth was a stern line as he delivered the pronouncement. "If Compassion is still being taught as the hardest of the three Virtues, then it seems you're ﬁnding out why. Do you know why Compassion must be tempered? Because it  _ kills,  _ boy. Didn't they make you study Faol's  _ Balance of the Three _ ?"

"Of course." Flustered enough to answer defensively, Liasin found himself stumbling. "It's a classic dissertation."

"And do you remember what it said?"

"That Compassion was the most dangerous of the Virtues -- both to the practitioner, and to those they would seek to help. So Faol claimed," Liasin added, attempting to steer his voice back towards neutrality.

"And he was  _ wrong. _ " Granden's reprimand came out in a snap, bordering on  angry. He softened himself instantly with a frown and a quick twitch  of his chin. "All three of the Virtues have their risks. Everything good can be bad. Everything that helps can also hurt. So, tell me why you've allowed yourself to take yours this far?"

At ﬁrst Liasin did not speak. His own rationales swam in his  head, each one shouted down a hundred times before; he knew the arguments and counterarguments well enough to stand both sides in  a debate. "Ahn'Qiraj. The Old God," he admitted suddenly, a husking of breath the only indication of his relief of being able to speak. "You might have heard that anyone trying to enter the temple is prey to the whispers of C'thun. The rumors are true. Everyone loathes him -- they spit on the sand when they hear his voice crawling through the  hive, but I ﬁnd myself welcoming it. Not out of adoration of C'thun," he clariﬁed quickly. "My mind's not turned. But sometimes I go down there near the entrance gates, out of reach of the watchful sentries. And I sit. And I listen. Or I linger after our forces retreat, keeping vigil on enemy ground." His voice took on a wistful cast; the shapes of dunes rose in his mind, covering entrances to tunnels that wound through the intricate hive.  "All I can think when I hear him is how  _ lonely  _ it must have been to be locked  up there for generations, as if  _ we  _ are the ﬁrst new victims in  an eternity -- and he relishes the opportunity to speak to us. As  if it eases some torment for him to threaten me. It's such a little  thing. How can I withhold  _ that? _ " Lifting his head, Liasin focused his gaze upon the other man. "I can't admit this to the Brigade. They'd think me  insane, or fouled by the Old God's taint. The Cenarion Circle would have even harsher words, I'm sure -- particularly after the Hold's Commander  lost his beloved to C'thun's touch. And Naxxramas -- " He hesitated, and then forged on. "Naxxramas is worse. All the shouting. All the screams. And yet, every time I set foot in that place, some part of me feels  _ glad. _ "

Beside him on the other corner of the wagon, Granden's features were growing blurred as the dusk rolled in. His silhouette had gone hazed. "You're very free with such personal information."

"You seem like you want to know."

"And so you'll tell me, just like that?" Granden's eyebrows furrowed; he shook his head in dismay. "Just because I want to  _ know?  _ What a cruel thing Compassion is to you." Curt enough to be mocking, the paladin folded his arms. "You pursue a very dangerous course, to extend sympathies to such beings. Is this really the decision you would make for your life?"

"Yes." Provoked into reacting despite himself, Liasin stepped away from the wagon, forcing boundaries of space between him and Granden. He turned sharply -- and then kept turning, wheeling around and  stabbing his ﬁnger towards the other paladin. "Because it's  _ right.   _ Because  I believe it to be the right thing to do, even if everyone else gives reason after reason of why it's wrong -- and  I can't explain it, I  _ can't  _ defend  it, but it  _ still haunts me. _ " The volume of his words rose  before he cut them off; the echo of his voice was  eaten by the insect-ridden night. He realized he was breathing hard. "If you know so much, then you might know the answer to this. Naxxramas  and Ahn'Qiraj -- something draws me to those places. I don't know what. It feels as if I  _ belong   _ there.  So even if it doesn't make sense, wasn't that what you said? To follow what I believe in most?"

No ire rose to match his challenge. As quickly as he had baited Liasin, Granden relented, exhaling sharply as he merely lifted and dropped his hands. "If you're looking for help, then you've heard my advice already. Compassion will kill you. Then again, we'll all die someday. Who's to say that your poison is any worse than my own? In the end, we all end up like them," he concluded grimly, nodding towards the bulk of the corpses on the deadwagon's bed. "And if we're  _ very  _ lucky, we get buried like her."

Offered a chance for reprieve, Liasin took it. "Forgive me, sir," he sighed, "but that's not much comfort."

"It's not meant to be." With a ﬁnal pat of his hand to the canvas shroud, Granden straightened up. "The only thing we can do is  hope for peace for us all. If you pray tonight, pray for that."

 

* * *

  
By the time that Jenna made her way back to the deadwagon, night had swallowed Light's Hope. Tents had been rolled out; cooking ﬁres dotted the landscape. Adventurers had settled down for the evening, drifting between guild banners as they traded sleepy gossip and promises of glory to be chased with coming of the next dawn.

Liasin had already started the ﬁre up, digging through the supplies for dinner. The ﬂames were warm and crackling, merrily devouring their cache of wood. She ﬂopped down beside them as Liasin produced half a loaf of bread and a few intact eggs, balancing the latter on his ﬁngers while he scrounged through the packs.

"Look at _these_ rates," she bragged, ﬂourishing the list. "They tried to charge extra this time for cart space, but I told them they were going to stack them two-up _anyway,_ so we managed to get away without an inﬂated cost. You should be able to get your Scarlet shipped almost for free! Liasin? Liasin, are you even paying attention?"

The paladin hadn't reacted to the good news, occupied with the frying pan. He tilted it back and forth; butter slid in glistening rivulets over the pitted metal. "Respect tempers Compassion, and tells it when to hold back," he said suddenly. "Tenacity encourages Compassion to press ahead through adversity. Therefore, Respect halts Compassion. Tenacity moves it. Compassion and Tenacity goad each other on, while Respect holds each in check."

Jenna lowered the paper, disappointed. "What's all that about?"

Smiling, Liasin placed the eggs on  the ﬁrepit rocks and reached across to take the list from her. "Just something from a book I read a while ago.  As it turns out, I was reminded of it today." He scanned over the numbers, giving a thankful nod when he reached the total at the bottom of the page. "You deserve an extra helping of eggs for all this. Eat well --  we have a long ride back tomorrow."


	8. Chapter 7

Rudyn liked to think of himself as a practical man.

Despite the accusations of his many detractors, Rudyn Brevenford never liked to cause pain simply for the sake of inﬂicting anguish. He preferred efficiency. He was not -- as some chose to believe -- born for the sole purpose of tormenting others. He  did not exist only to sow discord; he did not found the Victory Victorious as a means of gathering up every miscreant under the sun and turning them loose with guild colors.

As a child, Rudyn had never planned to study the dark arts. But -- like a convenient toppling of dominoes -- one step had followed another smoothly over the years. His high marks in the village classroom along with a knack for literacy led him to the promise of arcane mastery, or at least the possibility of a dull apprenticeship. With a minimum of effort, he'd advanced to novice potential, and had been sent to Stormwind to see what he could accomplish on a paltry stipend for tuition.

In the ﬁrst week of evaluations, everything had  changed. He'd gone out to the alleys for a breath of fresh air when what he thought was a pile of trash ended up being the still-breathing victim of a mugging.  The man had fought away his attackers long enough to defend a satchel of books. After waiting patiently for the body to stop twitching, Rudyn had reported the crime as any dutiful citizen would. The guard had never noticed what was missing; Rudyn had gone home with an armful of what turned out to be tomes on fel magic, along with a letter of admission  to the Slaughtered Lamb.

Life had been a series of happy -- if somewhat messy -- opportunities after that.

His left eye was what people tended to notice ﬁrst, and was what they assumed either led him to fel studies or was a mark of his profession. In truth, the brown splotch that sat like a disease on an otherwise pristine blue iris was inherited from his mother's line. It made it appear as if his pupil was leaking into its surroundings. His uncle had it worse, but his uncle was also an orchard-keeper near Southshore, and visitors  tended to assume the discoloration was the result of a fallen tree limb to the head. People were also very ignorant.

Rudyn couldn't truly lament the state of the Alliance, however; he made enough of a living off the gaps in other people's competence that he understood the necessity of the weak. Properly speaking, they were fodder. Over the course of their daily lives, they earned  money which they could then provide directly to him, or they could cut straight to the chase and simply offer him the services he would have purchased with their monies.

Other than his eye, there was little else to identify him in a crowd. He'd changed his name when he moved into Stormwind proper, leaving his family gladly behind. He wore his brown hair short, ends neat around his ears; any longer, and it inevitably grew into a mess of waves and curls.

After long campaigns, he insisted on a barber before  being seen in public. All this seemed only to add to people's willingness to believe he was not a serious practitioner of the dark arts: he was, they all agreed,  too genial, too socially invested. Such was an image he liked to cultivate. It worked to his advantage to appear reasonable; being a warlock was second to being a businessman with an agenda.

Part of his task list for Ironforge was sitting across from him now.

The dwarf had been huffing into his beard for the last ten minutes, a version of hemming and hawing that sounded like a broken bellows. The building was empty otherwise. Only Rudyn and Dinah occupied their side of the bench, sitting across from the dwarf at the broad dining table. The priest was openly bored, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she ﬁdgeted, stroking her ﬁngers absently along the elegant line of her chin. The dwarf -- Garahz Stonetapper, wide around the waist and bloated in the cheeks from rich living -- leafed through paperwork.

Outside, Rudyn could see Bitsy at the forges, illuminated in brief glimpses of ﬁre-lit metal. Nearby lava ﬂows painted the stonework molten. The belly of Ironforge cooked and simmered, radiating like a captured sun throughout the city. Suspended above the innards of the mountain, the Great Forge arched in a display of intricately balanced architecture, an emblem of dwarven triumph over gravity and fear.

Bitsy's diminutive silhouette barely rose above the railings that ringed the deadly lava. The ﬂames that reﬂected off stone and steel dyed the gnome's pink hair to a gory crimson. She had skipped the meeting in favor of arguing with Ironforge's blacksmiths; the lodging house was paid in full for another day, but Bitsy was in a hurry. Rudyn could understand why. The teams in Silithus had been entrusted to the secondary offense, and Bitsy was impatient to keep them on track.

But what they did in Ironforge was just as vital to the success of the Victorious as the upcoming skirmishes on the battleﬁeld. It was important that she understand that.

_ All this would be faster if we didn't have to negotiate with idiots _ , he acknowledged sourly as the dwarf pawed through the documents again, scouring the numbers as if the sums had changed within the last ﬁfteen minutes. Stonetapper had been difficult enough to  set up a meeting with; multiple bribes had exchanged hands in order to maintain discretion. It was blindingly obvious that the dwarf was under the impression that he could take advantage of the Victory's generosity.  For all his pretended recalcitrance, he was shrewd enough when it came to his wallet.

Rudyn decided to break the silence with a conversational nudge. "I  _ am  _ right in hearing that you're the best supplier of thorium in all of Ironforge?" he prompted.

"Aye." Fanning the papers before him, the dwarf drummed his ﬁngers on the ﬁnal amount listed at the bottom.  "And though yer offer is _almost_ fair,  I can't sell you more'n two crates. Two's all I've got spare right now. The rest's reserved for Blackwind's Brigade. They go through a regular amount -- more, if they're in the middle of something big, like they have been. Every week they're making orders. Hard t'keep up with the demand."

"So I've heard. Now then, Garahz -- can I call you that?" Not waiting for an answer, Rudyn pressed ahead. "My guild is willing to make an offer to take all of your available stock off your hands. Right  _ now,  _ in fact. We'll even collect it here in Ironforge, so you won't have the hassle of meeting the Brigade for transport. Doesn't that sound worth your while? I can assure you that it's worth ours." Conspiratorially, Rudyn propped his elbow on the table and leaned on it, speaking over the arch of his knuckles. "We paid quite a fee to be portalled here from the front lines, so you can believe that we don't intend to waste the trip."

The dwarf hesitated. "Promised to Blackwind," he muttered into his beard. "Can't break that agreement. Bad for my reputation -- bad for business."

"Believe me," Rudyn smiled, "in less than a year,  no one will  _ care  _ if  you sold your wares to another guild. Blackwind's going nowhere. No reason  _ your  _ pocketbook should have to suffer. And let's look at the alternative, shall we? If we don't buy from you, then that means we have to send our own miners out -- and I can assure you," he purred, dripping the syllables like hot tar, "we have enough of them that your pickings  _ will  _ grow slim. We don't want that, do we? So let's all stay pleasant."

Stonetapper jerked as the warning sank in. Dinah sat up, her slim ﬁngers steepling together as she canted her head towards the dwarf expectantly.

_ There's the carrot,  _ Rudyn thought with satisfaction.  _ Now the stick. _

"You know who is one of the  _ best  _ examples of pleasant? Bitsy Gearbracket," he said affably, allowing a sense of pride to warm his voice. "She's the rarest of creatures -- honest to a fault. It's why I employ her. She doesn't have the interest in playing games. Have you met her?"

With a ﬂick of his hand, he indicated the doorway. Across the forge, Bitsy was studying the blade of a  massive axe, fearlessly bringing her face close to the hooked edge. The dwarves around her were keeping  a careful distance.

"You see," Rudyn continued, "unlike all the other people in the world, who might spin their words for... maximum cruelty, if Bitsy wanted to hurt you, she would just hit you. It's why I keep her. She does  _ love  _ her duels."

The dwarf was not completely stupid. He glanced at Rudyn from underneath his heavy eyebrows. "And if I refuse?"

"Then I may have to bail her out of lockup again. Do you -- " Breaking off suddenly, Rudyn pursed his lips as he gave the dwarf a puzzled look. His tone of voice remained reasonable, if perplexed. "Do you...  understand the point I'm getting at here? I sincerely hope you do."

With that, Rudyn rose to his feet and walked out. He knew without looking that Dinah would follow.  
  


* * *

 

Heat poured over him in a wave as Rudyn exited the lodging house, nudging open the door with his knuckles and descending the rough-hewn stairs. King Magni's throne room hulked at the far end of the cavern, its doorway lined with guards. Rudyn spared them a passing glance. The guards had all been present when his meeting with Stonetapper had begun; the rumor mill hadn't spat up hints of any visiting dignitaries, but with the war efforts at Ahn'Qiraj continuing, the possibility couldn't be dismissed.

As he reached the common road, a whiff of ﬂoral scent ﬂoated through the air around him: Dinah had caught up, fussing with her skirts.

Rudyn slid his hands into the pockets of his sleeves, idly counting up spare reagents by touch. He strolled towards the Great Forge at an unhurried pace. The crowd parted and ﬂowed. Travelers chattered to one another as they lugged supply packs on their shoulders. Visitors fresh to the city gaped openly at the pillars that soared overhead, carved monuments stretching into the mountain's hollows. Everywhere, the call of merchants could be heard, boasting of their wares.

Beside him, Dinah picked at her robes, cleaning off ﬂecks of ash that drifted through the cavern. "He certainly  _ took  _ long enough," she groused. "Do you think he'll surrender his stock?"

"Hardly makes a difference either way." Wrinkling his nose as a pair of fur-clad hunters trundled by, spreading the reek of animal musk behind them, Rudyn stood aside and waited for  the path to clear. "Either he'll take from Blackwind's supplies, or he'll swindle off other miners to resell to us. I made sure to provide a high enough proﬁt margin to encourage  _ that.  _ The end result is the same." Resuming his approach towards the forges, Rudyn deftly stepped around the outstretched ﬁngers of a panhandler. "The more that the market is funneled through him, the easier it will be to manage."

"I still don't understand why we have to worry about thorium." In  the forge light, Dinah's mouth was revealed twisting in a pout. "It's not like it can make any armor we'd want to  _ use _ , anyway."

"Resource limitation is only one of the controls we need to implement. It certainly won't be the last. Speaking of which," Rudyn added, arching an eyebrow inquisitively in  her direction, "Dinah, is the business from Light's Hope wrapped up, or do you need me to have someone do it for you?"

"I'll take  _ care  _ of it," she snapped. She ﬂashed him a brittle smile a heartbeat later, recovering her poise with an airy ﬂap of her hand. "It'll all be ﬁne, Rudyn. I  _ promise. _ "

He waited, watching her with faint amusement until her expression wavered nervously, and then he turned away.

Bitsy was still occupied at the Great Anvil when they arrived. Her pink bangs jutted up in tufts around the pair of goggles that had been shoved up onto her forehead; in conjunction with the glow from the smelting pits, it made her resemble a bleeding dandelion. She grunted under her breath when she saw them, and then resumed hefting the weight of a smithy hammer in her sturdy hands. With satisfaction, Rudyn took in the way that the dwarven craftsmen had cleared space around the gnome and the modest work anvil she had chosen to set up at. It wasn't much privacy, but it would suffice.

"Dinah," he began, "if Light Hope's resolved, I believe you're off to solve our little problem with the Plagueland cauldrons. Bitsy will attend me in Silithus -- won't you, my midge-ﬂy?"

The gnome ignored him. He didn't mind; Bitsy was one of the few people he would tolerate such behavior from. She spoke rarely, and with little inﬂection in her chirping voice. She was, in fact, the most humorless example of her species that he'd ever met, which  was exactly how she had managed to climb the ranks of the Victorious all the way to officer.

He ﬁshed his pocketwatch out of his sleeve pocket, tangling his ﬁngers around the chain and letting it swing. "I'm afraid  we have to break up from here. Our mage portal is booked in," dragging the word out, he ﬂipped the cover of the watch open, "less than an hour. Bitsy, I hope your business with the smiths will be cleared by then. We can't afford  to be late."

She pushed her goggles down. "Understood."  
  


* * *

  
When morning came to Felstone, it shone down on a ﬁeld already embroiled in combat. Time had brought little relief for Arithor. The ﬁve adventurers that had plagued him had ﬁnally left -- only to be replaced by others from their guild, using the same underhanded tactics to dominate the ﬁeld.

Driven to the outskirts of the ﬁeld, Arithor listened to the day unfold. His helmet was under his arm; the air was still, allowing sound to travel without the rustle of leaves to obscure it. The crisp snap of spells rippled out from the farmyards. He'd been pressed back all the way across the boundary of the road from Felstone, closer to Andorhal, until even the whispers of Araj were audible, trickling through the forest like the rise and fall of an ocean tide.

The steady thud of hooves alerted him to another traveler. The cadence plodded down the road from the east, moving slowly enough that he did not bother to look around until they approached him, and then stopped.

He glanced over his shoulder, and saw a human leading a horse.

Weapons and armor were what Arithor looked for ﬁrst on the man. He was not disappointed in either. Weathered barding protected the steed, though any insignias had long been worn away, replaced by the practicality of plain leather and canvas. A spear hung from its straps in parallel to the horse's belly. A dented shield lay braced across two packs. The sword that was sheathed at the man's belt had a grip that had been wrapped with leather so worn and stained that the hide was nearly black with grime.

The man himself did not appear to be of great signiﬁcance. His armor was piecemeal and of average craftsmanship, with no glimmer of enchantment or other telltale sign of value. His beard was  shaggier along his chin than his cheeks, evidence of a neater trim that had been allowed to grow out, light brown hairs coming in patchy streaks. If Arithor had seen him under different circumstances, he would have thought the stranger to be just another farmer that had taken up arms under the misguided belief that he could make a difference.

But it was the man's demeanor that  marked him as atypical. He was calm, utterly  _ calm  _ while surveying the carnage that was unfurling on the distant ﬁelds, the violence shared equally among the Horde, Alliance, and undead. While he did not seem pleased at the mayhem, neither was he afraid. For a long moment, the  man simply stood there; then he turned his head and looked silently at Arithor. Though he held his tongue, the stranger's implacability was touched by a slight furrow of his brow, as if he was trying to puzzle  out what role the paladin might have to play in it all.

After all the competition and jibes of other adventurers on the ﬁeld, the stranger's restraint was refreshing. Arithor found himself appreciating the man's tact. "What are you doing here, uncle?" he called out, circumspect enough not to approach without giving  proper warning ﬁrst.

The honoriﬁc brought a faint smile to the man's face. "Not often hear I that these days from strangers."

"I was taught to be polite, and you're no graybeard. I could still call you elder, if you'd prefer."

"No." Rubbing a hand across his face in good-natured refusal, the man chuckled into his palm. "Granden. Granden is ﬁne. I must admit, I didn't expect to see the Scourge assaulted so... enthusiastically."

Arithor jerked his chin towards the forest behind them. "Arithor. And the Scourge is only being pressed this ﬁercely here.  The road remains difficult through Andorhal."

"So I saw." Patting a hand on his horse's saddle to reassure it, Granden absently tugged on a saddlebag, untwisting one of the straps that had been folded up. "With that sort of opposition, I was thinking about taking a roundabout way through to Chillwind. Unfortunately, that means I might have to swim."

"It's not right that you should have to ﬂee so cravenly." Arithor's ﬁngers tightened on his helm; he mastered his temper, but not before a bitter thought escaped his discipline.  _ If only some of these glory-seekers would spend some of their energy clearing the way instead of ﬁghting me, no one would have to sneak like a coward.  _ "How are you supposed to make it across the river in plate?"

If Granden's pride was at all stung by Arithor's  words, he gave no sign of it. "Very carefully, I'd imagine." His lips twitched into a  wry smile. "My horse might also resent the trip. So, it's a good thing that I own no fancy armor, although my mail will rust. Are you friends at all with the Scarlet patrols?"

"Me?" Arithor did not bother to restrain his scornful laugh at the possibility. "I can barely get  _ near  _ them. The Scarlets assume I'm a particularly well-formed Scourge victim -- one that walks, talks, and protests. I can only hope they'll become familiar enough with my presence to recognize that we're on the same side."

Interest had warmed Granden's eyes during the explanation; by the time Arithor ﬁnished, the older man was watching him thoughtfully. "I take it that you've been keeping this vigil for some time?"

"I have. And I'll stay for as long as it takes. The Scourge's acolytes keep restoring the cauldrons."

"Then you have learned what the Dawn already knows." Despite the bleakness of the words, Granden's tone was patient. "This is a hopeless task. Cut away a wart and it will regrow -- "

"But burn it, down to the skin, and it will not return." 

"You'll have a fetching scar for the ladies."

"Justice cannot always be pretty." Determined to ignore the discouragement, Arithor raised his helm, ﬁtting it snugly on and buckling the strap under his chin. "If you're intending to cross through Andorhal, you should do it soon before the Scarlets return on patrol. It's easier to make it through the northern streets without their interference, unless you're lucky enough to catch them when they're already engaged."

Granden shook his head. "Unfortunately, I can't cross over just yet. I'm looking for a certain kind of plant that grows in this region -- Arthas' Tears. I'd like to gather some before I go. Thank you for the advice, friend. I wish you the best with your efforts."

Skimming two ﬁngers across his temple in an impromptu salute, Arithor jerked his head in a nod. "Good luck."

Granden returned the gesture, though his hand hovered  a fraction longer than Arithor's had, less irreverent in the  execution of respect. With that, the man turned, tugging ﬁrmly again on  the saddle of his horse before circling around to collect the reins. The leather bunched in loose coils in his hands. When he shook them out, they slipped free in a tumble, and he was forced to stoop quickly to catch at them.

If it hadn't been for that accidental motion, Arithor would  have considered their meeting to be over. Yet, as Granden leaned forward, an object swung into view on his belt: a book with a set of heavy rings embedded into its spine, hanging from a pair of chains. Its  pages were not emblazoned with gold. Its cover was not adorned with gems or holy

symbols, but its presence at Granden's side was all that Arithor needed to recognize its signiﬁcance.

_ A libram,  _ he realized.  _ So, this man's a paladin. _

Armed with this knowledge, his eye returned to run shrewdly over Granden a second time. The older paladin did not resemble the rest of their order that Arithor usually encountered -- most paladins he'd run  into tended to overt shows of their power, whether through ﬁne armor or arrogance or both. Very few of them roamed the Plaguelands by themselves. None of them had provided Arithor with reason for anything other than scorn; he had not found cause to respect them, and had disdained their pursuits of the Light. Long ago, he  had decided they were not worth his time.

But Granden -- Granden did not seem like the others. He was polite enough to refrain from judgement; he did not mock or challenge Arithor, moving through the area as effortlessly as light over water. Fear of the Scourge did not cause him to cower at each rattle of the breeze. Though no guild mark was visible on his possessions, he seemed to carry his own purpose with him, holding himself apart from the turmoil of his surroundings.

_ He looks capable,  _ Arithor decided at last.  _ A ﬁne example of a paladin, one that doesn't care if he has to walk alone to achieve his goals.  _ The evaluation pleased him; it was satisfying to encounter someone on the road who followed the same sensibilities as he did.   _ I'll travel with him to learn more,  _ he decided suddenly, and tried to ignore the treacherous whisper that blossomed in his mind immediately afterwards, one that drilled  through all his self-conﬁdence with the accuracy of an assassin's knife.

_ A paladin as skilled as this -- I'm sure I can impress him. _

"On second thought, it's fortunate that you came this  way," he announced aloud, forcing the momentary weakness aside. "Some of those plants must be nearby in this blighted land, and I'm already here to help you."

Surprised, Granden glanced back over his shoulder, his hands still ﬁlled with bridle. "I can't say I would be ungrateful for any aid," he admitted, regarding Arithor steadily. "However, the countryside is dangerous, and I have little to trade for your assistance -- "

"You're a human, aren't you? All humans can kill." Hefting his greataxe, Arithor headed for his own supply packs where they had been stacked against the nearest tree. "If not, they should never have been let out of their mother's arms. Your own sword will be sufficient to help clear the way. I don't need anything else for payment."

The suggestion made Granden pause; the older paladin deliberated over the generosity, not rash enough to indenture himself out of hand. Eventually, his chin dipped in assent. "Though I'm not unfamiliar with this area, the Plaguelands  _ are  _ safer with two," he acknowledged. "Assuming it doesn't interrupt your work here, that is."

Arithor smirked. He refused to consider the possibility that his offer might be unwelcome. What mattered was that Granden had accepted. "Interrupt? I'm getting nothing done in the ﬁrst place. Lead the way."  
  


* * *

 

Across the world, one man tossed in his bedroll.

Stratholme had engulfed him during the night. Winding streets and squares had risen like mushrooms after heavy rains, sprouting in clumps until they ﬁlled up his world with cobblestones and ash-coated rooftops. There was no exit. The front gate had been lowered  and left shut; the rear entrance was blocked. Empty supply crates and other rubbish had been stacked in front of the archways, rising above Liasin's head and preventing him from searching for a keyhole.

_ A dream,  _ he thought, but did not struggle against it.

His weapons had been left behind. His armor was gone. The lack of protection did not worry him; the undead seemed  to accept his presence, allowing him to walk past without turning their hunger in his direction. Ghouls prowled the roads, grunting and snuﬄing at rats. Necromancers glanced up from their muttered conferences and quickly averted their gazes, skirting to the sides of the road to allow Liasin a clear path.

The cause for their respect rode beside him. The horse advanced with sluggish  _ clops  _ of its hooves. Its owner was equally placid, gloved hands resting lightly upon the reins. Even without the cue of Stratholme, Liasin could have identiﬁed the steed: knitted together from splintering bone and stained armor, lacking any ﬂesh on its exposed skeleton, a pair of horns sweeping up from its skull like curved lines of white wheat twisted into coils. Covered in a heavy cloak, the rider's face was hidden from view, swallowed by shadow whenever Liasin glanced up to try and guess at identity. He assumed it was the Baron. There were few other entities that ﬁt the description, and none of them had been seen within Stratholme.

They walked together in silence. Fire-warmed breezes licked at Liasin's skin; several sections of road were stiﬂing, the air as heavy as a furnace. There was a patience to their travel, a weariness in how slowly they moved; it felt as if Liasin had been walking for years along the broken streets, endlessly circling the same closed stores, trapped inside a miniature world  whose boundaries were marked out by city walls. Even if they bothered to hurry, there was no reason. They would simply end up repeating the route that much faster.

As they passed beneath the gates of a narrow alleyway, the rider reached out and touched Liasin lightly upon the shoulder.

Liasin turned, curious at the interruption. His senses exploded in pain.

The rider had lunged forward, bending low in the saddle to plunge its sword deep into Liasin's stomach. Without armor to block it, the blade had run the paladin through with the same effortlessness as a farmer gutting a lamb. The edge bumped his ribcage. The crossguard ﬂoated in front of his eyes, inches from his chest. It was a killing stroke.

Liasin's stomach cramped around  the metal that had been driven through him; blood fountained down his hips and  legs. He clutched at the rider's hand. But the emotion that ﬁlled him was not despair -- it was  a deep gratitude that blotted out the worst of the agony, a relief that had no logical cause.

As the rider straightened up, the cloak started to slide, exposing its face. The point of a pale chin came into view.

"Liasin. Liasin! Where are you?"

The words shook him back to consciousness. The dream shredded; Liasin found himself inhaling in a gasp, the pain ebbing into a dull pulse deep within his stomach. He woke up with his ﬁngers in the blankets of his bedroll. The sounds of the camp rumbled around him, peppering the air with shouts and complaints; Elijah's voice rang across the sands, shouting for him in bewilderment.

"Liasin! Breakfast is almost over, and I can't ﬁnd the blessing roster!"

Remembering the anguish of a death wound, Liasin's  hand fumbled at his shirt. His ﬁngers yanked at the  linen until it came untucked, revealing smooth, undamaged skin underneath. No traces of fresh blood were visible. No wound had been opened in the night. Beside him, Jenna was still sprawled out in her bedding, snoring lightly with  her mouth slack -- completely undisturbed by whatever nightmares might have gripped him.

He shook his disorientation away, and reached for his sword.

Despite the noonday heat of its sun, Silithus was still a  desert. Without the insulation of vegetation and rich soil, temperatures plummeted along with the sun. Travelers baked during the day; they froze during the night. Each time the Brigade made its way to Ahn'Qiraj, its members tried to pack enough supplies to protect against both  extremes. Each time, they came up short, stymied by recruits who thought that bringing a blanket to a desert was an elaborate prank.

The morning sunlight rolled in buttery waves over the dunes. It stabbed its brilliance into Liasin's eyes, forcing him to squint against the glare. It shone down on Jenna where she sat, glowering, by the pot of coffee that had been jammed on the coals to keep hot. The taste of tin  had seeped into the liquid, and each time Liasin took a swallow from his cup, he found himself grimacing.

Camp coffee was not the only hazard plaguing the day. The gates of Ahn'Qiraj overﬂowed with the weight of  three armies: Alliance, Horde, and the adventurers of various guilds that had been lured by promise of treasure and glory. None of the guilds were able to move forward; the combined powers of the Alliance and Horde had been driven back, half of them turned by the Prophet Skeram, who had retreated to a higher vantage after the last time he had been bloodied in battle. The Cenarion Circle was barely keeping order. Banners clustered thickly around the front of the Temple, lining the  stairs and clogging the obsidian archways. The Brigade's standard lurked like a monochrome spot amidst the colors.

The guilds had scrambled out of the way during the retreat; now, as wounds were being patched up and reinforcements gathered, the Cenarion Circle had decided  to allow the free agents go in next, willing to see if mercenary strength might recover lost ground. First in line -- by virtue of occupying the physical space and refusing to leave -- were the Victory Victorious, who were claiming that they were missing  the warriors necessary to make a charge. Rather than step aside to wait, their members had planted themselves squarely on the steps, effectively obstructing the entrance in an armed wall.

Blackwind had not taken the news well.

Too agitated to wait calmly, the dwarf was tromping around the Brigade's central campﬁre, slamming his ﬁst against the sturdy trestle table that had been set up for planning strategy. Ironhand and Coppershine were in attendance; Deliser, the only human officer, was absent as usual, managing business back in Stormwind. The guild captains were drifting in and out around the three dwarves, casting wary glances at the table as they picked up rations for their teams and dodged their commander's bile.

"So what if they're missing their frontliners? Have 'em go with a spare!" Blackwind threw up his hands, thick ﬁngers stabbing at the air. "They've never waited fer  _ us  _ before, why should we for them?"

"Because they're blocking the  _ magohoga  _ way in," Ironhand snapped back. "So we can yap for the intervention of the Cenarion Hold or the Alliance -- which they  _ won't  _ be givin' -- or we can  _ wait. _ "

"Waiting'd be easier if the hunters could stop getting bored and leading wee spider beasties back to camp," Coppershine interjected, methodically wrapping sacred candles into sweet-smelling bundles. "I swear, they're going to get us  all  _ obliterated  _ with their competition for kill shots. If you won't stop them, Blackwind, it's  just a matter of time 'fore someone dies."

At Jenna's campﬁre, the mood was equally terse.  The frequent winds were burying the coals under a layer of sand, kicking up ash in rippling swirls. Tarps had been stretched over other ﬁrepits  in an attempt to keep the stones clean; the Brigade's engineers kept trying to rig contraptions of ﬂaps and devices to keep sand out of people's meals, but inevitably the things were too cumbersome, and sometimes exploded or snapped shut on people's mouths.

Liasin had wisely avoided joining the discussion at the central table. Instead, he had sat down at Jenna's campﬁre, bringing  a token offering of biscuits cradled in a linen cloth, along with a small jug of honey. "So," he began once she started to eat, "I've got the priests saying that paladins can't heal, the rogues saying we can't adequately protect the front line, and then I've got _you_ warriors saying we do too much of both. Any ideas?"

"Sure. Stop doing everything," Jenna replied implacably, shoving a mouthful of biscuit between her teeth.

"That's not helping."

She shrugged, and made grabbing motions in his direction until he surrendered the rest of breakfast over to her. "Sorry, but you're not getting much sympathy from me. What am I  _ supposed  _ to say? 'Oh no, poor you, able to heal yourselves  _ and  _ wear heavy armor,  _ and  _ safeguard the front line.' Life must be  _ so  _ hard, being you."

Deftly, he rescued one of the biscuits for himself as they began to systematically disappear into her mouth. "Morale is terrible around the entire camp," he insisted. "The priests are up in arms, saying that Blackwind is just planning on replacing them with  paladins, the druids are unsympathetic to the priests, the warriors are upset that the paladins are refusing to pray for their blessings, oh -- and Lynnae's busy claiming that the reason she's not as good in the front lines is because none of the healers pay proper attention to her. I had to bribe Coppershine with a keg just to get her to calm down when  she heard  _ that. _ "

"Tell them all to go run laps." Crumbs fountained down as Jenna ripped the last biscuit in half, balancing the sections on her palm as  she fumbled for the honey jar. "That's what Farion does to us."

"Which they come crying to  _ me  _ about as well, by the way. Plus, Roberts is trying to claim that I only tolerate paladins who heal."

Jenna glanced up from the honey jar. A nasty smile spread across her mouth. "What," she questioned, all false surprise and cheer, "you mean you don't?"

"Don't heal and  _ won't  _ heal are two different things," he responded dryly. "Apparently, everyone likes to think I mean both, and forgets how I defend our abilities to protect the front line. Speaking of which -- where  _ are  _ the warriors, anyway?"

"At practice," Jenna answered, jabbing a sticky thumb out towards the open desert.

"And where should you be?"

"At practice," she repeated merrily, not giving any indications that she was willing to move.

"I see you're as thorough as ever to attending drills. Oh,  _ no, _ " he added swiftly as Jenna made to dump the linen and empty honey jar in his lap. " _ You  _ ate them, you can bring back the trash. I'm going to look for your captain."  
  


* * *

 

Despite being a recent addition to the Brigade, Farion Cloudshield had ﬁt in quickly with the guild's daily affairs. He was a  warrior who was wholly dedicated to his discipline, having taken  no loved ones save for his weapons and armor; he was meticulous in  the upkeep of his gear, and was on a ﬁrst-name basis with the repair smiths that serviced the Brigade. Blackwind and the other officers had been suitably impressed with Farion's determination, and had elevated him appropriately -- a promotion that the kaldorei had accepted with as little fuss as if he were informed about the weather. If it wasn't for one small habit, Farion would have blended in effortlessly with any of the other night elves that had drifted into service with the guild.

Farion's Darnassian -- or so Liasin had been told -- was impeccable. The kaldorei studied his letters with the same obsessive patience  that he used to reﬁne his shieldwork. That patience, however, backﬁred when it came to his Common. The humans who had tutored Farion had left their stamp on him forever by passing down the accent of their countryside upbringing; Farion had studied their lessons dutifully, memorizing each and every grammatical quirk.

He was the only night elf Liasin had ever met who drawled.

The practice grounds that the Brigade had managed to reserve consisted of a small patch of dirt on the outskirts of the guild camps. Most of the time, it doubled as a sparring ground for stray members of the Brigade, along with anyone else who wandered in looking for a clear spot. As Liasin came over the ridge, he was presented with the sight of a straight row of warriors in full plate, helms off by their sides, already sweating under the morning sun while Farion lectured in slow, sleepy consonants.

"You do that, the silithid'll kill you. So keep your back to a wall. Most of you'll have at least one healer assigned speciﬁcally to you. Make sure y'know who they are, because if they die, I will kill you. Or," he added, catching sight of Liasin and nodding emphatically towards the paladin, " _ he  _ will. And believe me, you don't want that. Takes  _ forever. _ "

"Go on, rub it in," Liasin replied without rancor.

"Like being tickled to death with a spoon." Farion made one last dour pass of his eyes over the warriors assembled, and picked up his swordbelt in brisk dismissal. "Done! Get!"

Liasin waited on the sidelines as the warriors ﬁled past, cradling the remains of his coffee against his palms. The heat seeped slowly into his skin. Farion remained in place, watching his subordinates depart until the last one had vanished over the sands; only then did he direct his attention to the paladin. He gestured to Liasin's armor ﬁrst, calloused indigo ﬁngers making circles at the pauldrons that cupped and  ﬂared like shallow bowls off the paladin's shoulders. "Still in leather? You forget how to wear plate these days? One of us could give you a refresher course."

Liasin grinned. He padded forward, feeling the loose sand under his boots change to solid ground, packed down by sweat and spilled blood and the weight of armored ﬁghters circling one another for hours. "Say what you will, but it helps me keep _you_ alive. Maybe I wouldn't need it if you weren't made of paper."

The night elf only laughed at the chastisement, buckling his swordbelt back on with a swift yank. "I take it you're the paladin unlucky enough to get paired with me?"

"It looks that way. Please," Liasin added wryly, "don't die on me."

"Won't happen. You take good care of things." The compliment was spoken blandly; Farion handled ﬂattery and fact with the same tone of voice. That bluntness extended to his other habits. He turned  a thoughtful eye on the paladin, the broad paw of his hand settling on the pommel of his sword. "So, you getting ready for C'thun, or just here to tell me I look pretty?"

Liasin exhaled. "Two things," he acknowledged. "The ﬁrst is that your warriors have been complaining about the paladins, and I have no idea what to tell them. The other is more immediate. I haven't worked with you since that last trip into Stratholme, and thought I would check in. If I'm going to heal you in Ahn'Qiraj, then I need to refresh myself in seeing how you ﬁght -- how your footwork handles, how you direct your enemies, you know the routine. How's your new sword working out?"

"It's no Quel, but it'll do. You thinking about giving me yours?" When Liasin only managed a weak laugh at the suggestion, Farion dipped his head and changed the subject. "Let's go out," he suggested. "Do patrol. The warriors -- they're just restless. We get into the Temple, they'll have something else to complain about instead. Fighters that complain about the people keeping 'em alive aren't ﬁghters very long. As  for me, you'll get the hang back quick enough -- providing you keep up on the ride. Think you can?"

Hearing the friendliness humming in the warrior's voice, Liasin smiled. "It's worth a try."  
  


* * *

 

It was early evening before they returned to camp, taking the long route around the war-torn territory of Ahn'Qiraj. Farion's mistsaber had the advantage on shifting ground; the ﬂexible paws of the giant cat found traction where Liasin's horse would start to slip. But closer to the roads, and on barren soil, Liasin had the edge. They wheeled their mounts back and forth, snatching the lead  from each other whenever one of them crept ahead. Liasin's horse snorted at Farion's mistsaber; Farion shouted cheerful taunts about Liasin's virility. They rode with only the sun as their judge, and whim to guide them.

Though he was not a master equestrian, Liasin took to the challenge willingly. He paced Farion by degrees, losing ground on turns  only to steal it back once more on the straights. They danced between guilds that had staked their tents on the far outskirts of the armies, dodging adventurers and camp workers, pelting down the makeshift roads that had been constructed from pavilion walls. Eventually, the two broke out into open air, circling even further away from the guilds. The distance widened and narrowed between them as the sky wheeled overhead, studded with the ﬂash of bronze dragon wings.

They broke before noon to rest, hiding from the punishment of the sun underneath an outcropping that thrust through the sands like an accusing ﬁst. The stones came together to form a natural overhang, too shallow to be called a cave. Farion passed over his waterskin; both of them checked their mounts, offering only a few sips to keep their steeds from illness after the hard run.

The night elf's sea-blue hair was dark with sweat, tangled  and coming free from its leather tie. Liasin could feel the linen undershirt of his armor plastered against his skin. Despite  that, he was grinning. The easy pace had done much to relax his nerves, ﬁlling up his mind with the sights and sounds of all the people who had assembled to ﬁght against Ahn'Qiraj. Like Light's Hope, the sheer variety was like the roar of an ocean, the waves of noise endlessly crashing, details blurring together into one roiling choir of sound. It was  _ life  _ in all its glory; it was life, and Liasin was gratiﬁed to see it.

With a satisﬁed grunt, Farion ducked down towards the rocks  and came up holding a battered supply pouch. Its leather was a muddy brown; Liasin could not guess how long it had been there, blending in with its surroundings like another lump of sand. There was no guild mark visible upon it. Judging from the wear and  tear of the leather, it had seen regular use before being stashed away, but provided no hint to its owner.

"I wonder who forgot their things here," Liasin remarked with surprise.

"Forgot or was driven out." Wasting no time, Farion ﬂipped open  the pouch and began to ﬁsh through it. A half-swollen waterskin was produced ﬁrst; the night elf screwed up his  face as he popped the cap and took a skeptical sniff of the contents. Satisﬁed, he resealed the waterskin and dropped it by his feet, moving on to a handful of pages. These, he passed over to Liasin, keeping his attention on the contents of the bag.

The paladin reached out and accepted the texts, turning them around to catch the light. None  of the printed characters added up to a language he understood, though several of the words almost approached familiar. "Twilight's Hammer," he guessed, lowering the papers and  watching Farion ﬂing aside a discolored strip of bandages. "I hope we're not taking their supplies from them."

Farion's snort was amused. "We're already off their Winter Veil lists for hunting their Old God. It's ok," he reasoned generously, repacking the bag with the reserves he'd found acceptable and kicking aside the rest, "I'll send'm some fruitcake."

Far less comfortable than the night elf about the acquisition of goods, Liasin scanned over the papers a ﬁnal time before folding them carefully up for transport. He made a silent apology as he did, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt. "Have you ever wondered what drives them, Farion? Their desire to bring about the end of the world?"

Pausing in his efforts to stomp the remains of the supplies into the sand, Farion frowned. He scrolled up his eyes towards the rocks in deep contemplation. "Mmm _ hmm.  _ Let me think." Only  a heartbeat passed before he gave a ﬁrm nod. "Crazy. They're crazy in the head."

"Farion," Liasin reprimanded quietly. "There had to have been  _ some  _ reason why they all felt this path was the best one to follow."

"Sure," the night elf agreed. He tied the purloined supply pouch to his saddle, pulling himself back onto his mistsaber. "Crazy."

 

* * *

 

At camp, the smell of dinner was starting to suffuse the air. Cooking pots were being stirred, ﬁrepits uncovered and coals set to burn. One of the guild mages was moving from tent to tent, lighting candles with touches of her ﬁngers to the wicks.

The central meeting table had not seen any peace in Liasin's absence. Ironhand and Coppershine had vanished; they had been replaced by Roberts, who was busy glowering at Blackwind. The stocky dwarf had to crane his neck to stare back at the leggy paladin, but the difference in height did not deter the guild's commander from glaring back at Roberts with all the camaraderie of a seething volcano.

Roberts looked equally displeased. His head jerked around  when he heard the crunch of boots on the sand; his eyes narrowed unpleasantly when he saw Liasin, but he directed his words towards Blackwind. "I'm telling you," he insisted, "the Horde keep getting closer to the gate. If we don't do something now, they'll be in a position to block us out next."

Blackwind spat a puff of breath through his beard. "Are they breaking the peace?"

"No."

"Then we can't attack them."

The answer reddened Robert's face. "They're  _ Horde.  _ We should at least give them some grief."

"Are ye deaf or just daft? The answer's  _ no. _ " Jabbing his ﬁnger at the paladin, Blackwind turned away, hitching  himself onto the nearest bench. From his belt, he ﬂicked out his pipe, and began to systematically pack it with tobacco. "You want to act  like that, ﬁnd another guild's colors to wear. The Brigade operates with  _ honor.   _ Doesn't  matter if they're Horde or your great-aunt Milly. Doesn't matter if they're even the Vics -- "

"Not to interrupt any special time between you two," Farion cut in, shading his eyes as he peered at the road leading towards Cenarion Hold, "but speak of demons and they'll show. Look. Vics're on the march."


	9. Chapter 8

The horses that rode in tandem along the road from the Hold to the Temple were remarkably few in number despite the fuss that had been made around their absence. Jenna caught sight of them as she trudged back from the supply tent. Five together, they were escorted by a pair of strained-looking night elves in Cenarion colors. Rudyn was in the fore.

The armored gnome that rode beside him had chosen a horse as well, disdaining the mechanical striders of her race. The barding of her horse was decorated with officer's tassels on  the bridle; she handled her mount with an unfaltering hand, fearless despite the plummet if she slipped and fell.

Though the faceplate of the gnome's helm was down, Jenna recognized Bitsy Gearbracket, lead warrior for the Victorious.

Carious, Jenna padded along until she reached the Brigade's central campﬁre. Liasin and Farion hovered at the end of the meeting table, looking like a pair of matched gargoyles too restless to sit. Blackwind had no such reluctance; he was lodged on a bench. The paladin known as Roberts was there as well, looking as sullen as Jenna had ever seen him.

All ﬁve of the horses slowed as they neared the Brigade tents, eventually coming to a halt on the road. This time, Blackwind did not stir from his comforts, leaning back on the bench and  trickling pipe smoke through his ﬁngers. Rudyn was eventually forced to steer his horse off the path to close the distance between them, followed by Bitsy as the two of them breached the outskirts of the Brigade camp and stopped just outside the central ﬁrepit.

Neither guild master spoke. Blackwind ﬂicked his tobacco pouch open. In a single, ﬁerce motion, he ﬂipped the wooden pipe over and rapped out the still-smoldering contents onto the sands.

"So," he ﬁnally said, "Fleck-Eye chooses to show himself at last."

"Blackwind," Rudyn observed limply. "Don't trouble yourself on account of me. I could have gone all  _ day  _ without seeing you."

"Yer breaking my heart." Reaching for a fresh pinch of tobacco, the dwarf began to studiously reﬁll his pipe. "You planning to hire another guild to do your ﬁghting for you again while you take all the credit?"

Rudyn's mouth turned up in a hairline smirk. "I see someone's bitter about the dragon they lost last month."

A snort was his answer. Blackwind shook his match out, dropping it once the pipe had been relit. He sucked at the pipe until smoke blossomed in thick rolls; then he tilted it towards Rudyn. "Answer the question. Are ye going in yet or not?"

"Patience, my overeager friend." The horse beneath Rudyn danced; he reeled it in with a tightening of the reins. "The night's a poor time to start. We'll begin tomorrow morning, when everyone's fresh. I'm assuming you'll be right on our heels as usual, chasing after scraps?"

"Keep your eyes open, and y'might ﬁnd out."

Rather than snap back a witty reply, Rudyn lingered. He hesitated, long ﬁngers twitching on his reins before he turned his head away and nudged his horse forward. Bitsy waited until Rudyn had moved past before she closed behind him, guarding his ﬂank as effectively as a warhound.

Jenna held her tongue in check until the riders had moved on, slapping the table as soon as the Victorious were out of earshot. "Are we really going to tag along behind them?" she hissed.

Blackwind rolled his eyes, his voice having sunk to a low growl. "'Course not. Just for that, we'll go in on our own timetable. Liasin!" He jerked his head towards the paladin. "Cenarion Hold posted a bounty for  one of those walking statutes. Seems it got loose and is causing all kinds of inconvenience for 'em up north near one of the hives. Go take a team out tomorrow morning, and get it while everyone else's distracted.  If we make the Temple into a competition, we'd get into all kinds of trouble.

The Vics aren't our real enemies." Leaning back against the table, Blackwind laced his ﬁngers over his stomach, pinching his pipe in the corner of his mouth. "Let's see if they want glory, or to win."

"Winning would be nice too, once in a while," Roberts spoke up acerbically. "And a good deal less  _ humiliating. _ "

The dwarf's brow furrowed dangerously, thick as a bristlebrush. "And it wouldn't be worth a lick of hound's spit if you lose your integrity while ye do it! When have we ever cared what others've thought? Eh?" Glaring around the campﬁre in challenge, he subsided after only a moment. "No. We  _ keep  _ our integrity. Else we'd be no better than the adventurers who make a living going from bounty to bounty, looting ruins and hunting exotic game, with no thought for how foolish they come off along the way. They'll grow up, or they'll die, but in the meantime we have to put up with their catcalls. We  _ don't  _ descend to their level. We follow our own standards, and may the Nether take those who don't agree. Understood?"

Roberts started to speak again and then frowned, turning hard enough on his heel to kick a spray of sand in his wake. Farion and Liasin did not protest either; they exchanged a look before heading back for  the practice grounds, leaving Blackwind alone with his pipe.

Choosing to ignore Roberts, Jenna ambled along  behind them, still lugging the supplies from the quartermaster. She was unworried about interrupting any of their conversation; she'd pry out anything important from Liasin anyway, and she had full conﬁdence that Farion would just throw her off the grounds if the discussion became a matter for captains only.

Evening was unfolding swiftly, cloaking the skies in ripples of blue and violet. One of the other warriors was shadowboxing on the outskirts  of the ﬁeld: one of the new recruits, a human who went by the name of Redtail. Jenna offered him a nod that he barely returned; his  attention was focused on something over the edge of the dunes. He swung his axe in swooping waves, over and over in an attack. Craning her neck, Jenna glimpsed the gleam of a bug's  shell -- one of the smaller Silithid burrowers, no bigger than a hunting dog. From what she could see, Redtail was taunting the creature, darting forward to deliver glancing blows before escaping from any retaliation.

Finding a spot on the edge of the ﬁeld, Jenna peeled the supply packs oﬀ her shoulder and dumped them on the ground. From the top, she ﬁshed out a whetstone and settled down with  one of her punch-daggers to work out a burr in the metal.

Farion's voice drifted over to her, a warm hum of sound. "You doing the rest of the pairings, or is Ironhand?"

Liasin laughed before he answered. "He's having me assign the other paladins to warriors this time. I'm half-tempted to match Roberts with Lynnae." His voice rose sharply. "What are you  _ doing? _ "

Startled, Jenna jerked her head up, wondering  if she was being addressed -- but Liasin was staring towards Redtail.  The warrior had lured the Silithid all the way into view on the practice ﬁeld, and  the setting sun threw harsh shadows over the damage that had been done to the insect. Its shell was cracked in a jagged line that revealed the pale innards each time it struggled forward; two of its legs had been severed, and a third dragged in the sands, causing  it to wobble with each crippled inch of ground it covered. The surface of one of its compound eyes was smashed, reﬂecting light erratically through the ichor. With the variety of wounds that had been inﬂicted, the creature was no longer a threat; it was a miracle, Jenna thought, that it was still moving at all.

Redtail spun his axe again, looping its weight around his wrist. "What?" he called back, grinning. "Just having some fun while I'm bored!"

With that, he leapt backwards in a showy ﬂourish, lifting the axe high in the air before he twisted around to drive the weapon towards the insect once more.

It was blocked by Liasin's mace.

With only seconds to close the distance, the paladin had lunged forward, neglecting his shield in favor of speed. The head of the mace had caught the axe's blade; the glow of its healing enchantment  shed a soothing glow over the sands.

Having turned aside the strike, Liasin pushed ahead a step; Redtail was forced to stagger back, driven away from his prey. "It's a  _ Silithid, _ " the warrior protested, laughing uncertainly at Liasin's reaction.  "A tool of the Old God -- "

"You're  _ hurting it, _ " Liasin roared.

Pressed into a retreat, Redtail stumbled, ﬁghting to disentangle his axe. Liasin advanced, changing from defense to  attack so ﬂuidly that it seemed a natural extension of intent. He sunk the mace down in a hooking motion, following it with a  step that closed inside Redtail's guard. Forced to choose between saving his weapon and recovering distance, Redtail picked the latter; the axe came free, spinning loose  to fall harmlessly away.

As Redtail shook out his wrist with a yelp, Liasin tossed his mace to the sand, and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Lethargy came out of its sheath with a silken rasp.

Jenna cursed, abandoning her dagger and her whetstone both. She dashed towards the two, throwing herself physically at Liasin from behind; wise enough to aim out of range of his downstroke, she cut the angle of her assault wide to keep from being gutted if he should turn. She estimated correctly. As her footsteps approached, Liasin spun. Lethargy's tip skimmed the air inches away from her stomach.

He blinked at her unsteadily, as if not fully aware that he had nearly gutted her. "Jenna?"

"What are you  _ doing _ , Liasin?" she yelled. "What are you  _ thinking? _ "

Seizing the opportunity, Redtail spread his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. "He attacked me, Jenna. You saw it -- he  _ attacked  _ me!"

She whirled on him next, but before she could speak, Farion was at her side. His glower was what made Redtail quail. "We saw you being an  _ idiot  _ is what we saw," the night elf barked. "Fifteen laps!"

"But -- "

"You think I should look the other way when one of my warriors  _ directly provokes  _ the paladin captain?" Farion retorted. "That's ﬁfteen laps --  _ around  _ the entire Alliance camp. You make me say it twice, that'll be ﬁfteen around the Horde camp too. Go!"

Redtail cursed, but obeyed, scooping up his axe  and escaping; his parting glare went ignored by Liasin. The paladin was entirely unaware of everyone else. The Silithid had caught up to his position, scrabbling blindly, one of its legs scratching against his foot. Liasin stared at the insect, shoulders heaving -- and then drove Lethargy point-ﬁrst into the bug, impaling it.

The Silithid's legs splayed. A ragged chitter rose as it spasmed, mandibles pinching frantically at empty air. Liasin didn't hesitate. He planted his foot on the insect's carapace, yanked the sword free, and drove it in a second time.

In the sudden silence, the noise of Liasin's panting was as ragged as a saw across bone.

Then he turned and doubled over, retching. The remnants of camp coffee splashed onto the sands; bile spattered, clotting the dirt.

Uncowed by the mess, Jenna strode around  until she could grab a handful of the paladin's cloak, wrenching at his  shoulder to spin him. The expression in his eyes was helpless. It stopped her cold, stealing the words out of her mouth as deftly as an assassin. Liasin's face was bleak, miserable and lost, desperate with a fear that she had no name for.

_ I've seen this before,  _ she realized.

Her ﬁngers clenched; Liasin shuddered. Relentless, she yanked him up to his feet. "Damn your wits, Liasin!" she yelled, ignoring his wince. "This isn't like the Monastery! Why can't you  _ forget it? _ "

Frustration overwhelmed her before she could stop it, spurred on by the paladin's lack of resistance. Her free hand whipped across his face. Vomit spattered over her glove; Liasin absorbed the blow without a cry, still panting, still looking up at her with the same raw vulnerability.

She hit him again.

The words were spilling out of her now, like a festering  boil that had ﬁnally been lanced. "It wouldn't be so traumatic if you  weren't so much of a wuss, Liasin! Tragedies happen every  _ day!  _ You're the  _ only one  _ who doesn't get over them. It's this awful everywhere you go!  _ Why can't you ignore it? _ "

"Jenna," he managed at last. His eyes were wide. "Jenna."

" _ Stop it! _ " she screamed, frantic to regain some sense in him, unwilling to hear her name repeated by a man who looked like he was  bleeding from a belly wound. Her hands moved without her volition; she shook him hard, unable to stop. He felt as boneless as a rabbit. Nothing  she did could make him react.

The vise-tight grip that landed on her wrist startled her. She had forgotten about Farion's presence; moving with the natural swiftness of his race, the man had come up from the side to intervene silently. The glow of Farion's eyes was hard for her to read, framed in a face of disciplined lines. It was difficult to tell if he was frowning.

But the message was impossible to mistake. Jenna released Liasin carefully, her ﬁngers uncurling from the paladin's cloak. Numbness was crawling over her now that her rage had been cut short. She had no idea what Farion would say; she could not imagine that it would be good.

As Liasin staggered back, Farion reached out to steady the other man. "Liasin," he ordered. His voice was calm. "You've got a bounty tomorrow. Have to be fresh for it. Go get some rest."

Miraculously enough, the paladin obeyed without incident; woodenly, he yanked Lethargy out of the Silithid's corpse, snapping it once to the side  to ﬂick the worst of the ichor off the blade. With his eyes averted, he collected his mace and disappeared among the tents, leaving them behind with the insect's broken shell.

Torn between trying to brush off the situation and the sick awareness that nothing could erase what had just transpired, Jenna forced a laugh. She wiped her glove on her leg. "Him and those moments of his," she tried, loathing the brittle cheer in her voice. "He needs to cut it out."

Farion regarded her steadily. "Think you owe me an explanation for all of that."

Fighting back the swell of dread clenching her chest, Jenna cleared her throat. "You know Liasin and I went to the Scarlet Monastery a while back," she tried.

"Hound's spit, Jenna." The curse was passionless, unforgivingly bland. " _ Everyone  _ has. Not everyone comes out like that.  I've seen him look at the abominations in Naxxramas without fear, but I have never in my life watched him be ill like that before."

"That's my  _ point. _ " Casting around for a patch of unspoiled ground, Jenna lowered herself to sit. Exhaustion streaked her muscles; the burst of emotion had wrung her dry. "We were stupid.  Liasin wanted to explore, so we snuck around all day trying to avoid being noticed. The both of us ended up ﬁnding one of the Crusade's interrogation chambers. We thought -- we thought it was just a service tunnel, it was a complete accident." Peeling off her gloves, she ﬂung the leather to the ground; her ﬁngers went into her scalp, raking back her hair in clumps. "There was no way we could save everyone inside. Liasin tried. The best we could manage was getting one man back on his feet --  _ one _ , out of over a dozen. They were -- Farion, there was no way. The Scarlets had been too thorough."

Stopping there, Jenna tightened her jaw. The smell of it was climbing out of her memory -- the stench of the enclosed chamber in the summertime, dark and rank with decay. The more that she spoke, the faster she recalled. She forced down nausea. "But Liasin -- Liasin said he thought, if only he could get one more of them walking, at least  _ one more _ , it would be worth the risk. I let him. I shouldn't have let him. It was stupid of me, but it was faster than trying to argue. I took the survivor with me and tried to lure the guards away. Even then, it was almost too late -- the patrols were getting close to where we'd tethered our horses. I waited for Liasin there, but he didn't come. It was -- it took longer than I thought to get back."

Leather creaked as Farion crouched, watching her while she fumbled through her explanation. The golden glow of his eyes shone like dimmed candles, mirroring the stars that were fading into  view overhead. The sun had almost ﬁnished slipping away below the horizon. The practice ﬁeld was grey. The Silithid corpse was a darkened lump, as innocent as a rock. Ichor and vomit were transformed into simple discolorations on the sand, the day's violence erasing itself effortlessly as the light dwindled away.

Jenna rubbed her palms together, the skin sounding dry as paper. "He had managed to barricade the door while I was gone. I caught up with the guards that were trying to break in, knocked them cold. When I called out to Liasin, he didn't answer at ﬁrst. I almost didn't think he'd let me in. But when he did, he was," she paused there, lifting her head, inhaling with stuttering lungs that fought against turning air into words. "He was covered with blood. The room -- it was a slaughterhouse. Apparently... some of the victims knew they couldn't be rescued. The ones that could still talk... when no one came to save them and the Scarlets started hammering on the door, they starting begging him for a clean death." Her mouth tasted sour when she swallowed; she found herself unable to look at Farion, studying the lacings of her boots instead. "So he gave it to them."

"But you made it back before the Scarlets could break in."

Jenna's head jerked in a nod. "Which  means that if even  _ one  _ had  been left alive by then, the two of us could  have tried to carry them out. I know.  _ He  _ knows it too." Dropping her hands, she braced her elbows  on her knees and looked up towards Farion; the eﬀort only lasted a second before her eyes betrayed her, focusing resolutely on the  sky instead. "After that, he started going back to the Monastery to pray. The Scarlets forgave him somehow -- I'm not sure, I think that's where most of his gold goes to these days, paying them for blood money when he wasn't the one who committed a crime. But it stuck in his head somehow.  He's always been  _ weak _ , Farion, even as a  kid. Anyone else would  have gotten over it by now. I've seen him go through worse. I don't  know why he can't let this one go."

If it was solemnity or respect that kept Farion's tongue quiet at ﬁrst, Jenna did not know. When the night elf ﬁnally answered, it was with no trace of condemnation. "What he did wasn't murder, Jenna. It was mercy."

"Yeah, well." Jenna twisted her weight as her left ankle began to send up warning pangs of cramping. She shoved her foot out, digging a furrow in the sand; leaning back, she watched the grains trickle  in to ﬁll the shallow depression she had carved. "Try getting  _ him  _ to understand that."

True to his laconic reputation, the night elf was conservative in offering any reply. Jenna heard the thoughtful  _ smack  _ of a tooth being sucked before Farion spoke up. "You know, I've heard something about this whole business of not tormenting your enemies. 'S called a sense of honor."

"Honor takes itself too seriously when it makes someone defend the enemy side." Jenna thrust her ﬁngers into the dirt, destroying the neat groove in the sand. In deﬁance of any restraint, she jabbed at the ground, churning up the surface like a mole. "He shouldn't be on the front lines  _ at all.  _ I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself."

"Looks like he's getting hurt well enough already." Farion chuckled into his palm, rubbing his hand over his jaw. "But it won't solve nothing. What _you_ need to do now is give me a good reason why I just saw one of my warriors haul off and hit the paladin captain.  Doesn't matter that you two are friends. If word gets back to the rest of the Brigade -- _or_ it happens again where anyone can see it -- you've just made a lot of problems between our tent and the paladins'. Don't need that powder keg."

She winced, a roil of queasiness starting up fresh in her stomach. Even though she had no taste for guild politics, she knew that Farion was correct. "You have to understand," she pleaded. "Liasin's like a brother to me. He fostered at my house with my family, he helped us take in the harvests -- and I look away  _ one  _ time and he messes himself up and keeps punishing himself and  _ I can't do anything about it.  _ If it were a wild animal plaguing him, I could kill it. If it were an enemy, I could  _ ﬁght  _ it! But Liasin -- he's always had this  _ weakness,  _ you learn to look out for it, like a game leg -- 'don't pull spiders apart in front of him, Jenna,' that sort of thing." She was babbling now, ﬁngers kneading the sand in misery. "The Monestary didn't  _ cause  _ it. It just made it  _ worse. _ "

"So how's knocking his wits silly supposed to ﬁx anything?"

"I didn't  _ mean  _ to hit him, Farion." The protest felt weak even as she voiced it. "I've thought about it -- hell, we've  _ all  _ thought about it -- but I didn't mean to actually strike him. It's -- it's all this competition, it's  _ killing us, _ " she blurted out, latching on to the ﬁrst desperate reason she could think of. Saying the words aloud let her taste the rancor in them. "All this standing in place is driving me  _ crazy.  _ I've got to get out of here before I do something insane. And if Liasin knows what's best for him, he'll get out too."

Bravado did not carry the day; the declaration rang  hollow, even as Jenna lifted her chin stubbornly. Farion was tactful enough not to challenge her. "You'd be missed." No emotion was invested in his words. Try as she might, Jenna could not discern anything but pragmatism in Farion's reply. "But if you feel it's necessary, then I can't hold you back."

Her ﬁngers made a helpless stab at the ground. Grit slid underneath her ﬁngernails, sticking in patches to the weapon grease still lingering from her whetstone. It was easy to blame the guild -- yet, even as she lumped the fault together in one merry sum, the truth gnawed at her brain.  _ If it were a threat, I could ﬁght it. If it were a beast, I could kill it. _

_ I look away once, and once was all it took. _

"I have at least a week to decide about renewing my contract," she said aloud. "I don't like what being in this guild is doing to me.  I hate watching us all  _ fail  _ like this. But I don't know what else to do."

"You going to tell Liasin if you leave?"

"No." Guilt gave way to shame. Jenna bowed her head, watching the grooves that were melting away beneath her in the sand. "He'd ﬁnd out soon enough anyway."   
  


* * *

 

The nights were not yet crisp in the Plaguelands; autumn came earlier to the northern lands than to the warmer belly of Menethil, but winter was still far enough away that Arithor could pretend it would never show.

Soon enough, he would have to start making plans for shelter. Determination alone would not keep him alive in the middle of a hard winter frost -- not unless he planned to grow fur like a druid and root for grubs.

With a handful of herbalist's notes for direction, he and Granden had departed Felstone, traveling north to higher ground where the ﬁelds sloped into the mountains that sheltered Hearthglen. Natural defenses had done much to fortify the Scarlet Crusade's position, narrowing down avenues of approach to only a few channels. This had  allowed the Crusade to spill over into small encampments; tents infested the forests north of Andorhal, leading past Dalson's into the Northridge Lumber Camp. It was a gamble of threats on all sides. Most travelers chose to avoid the mountains altogether.

Compared to ﬁghting Scourge, the task of gathering herbs should have been simple. Yet every place they checked on the map was barren; every patch of land that had the proper combination of moisture and light had already been picked clean. Arithor's ﬁrst suggestion had been that the  two of them should brave the Hearthglen road, searching where few others would have dared -- but the offer had been turned down solidly. Rather than enter into combat, Granden preferred to retreat. He  chose to avoid confrontation, veering away from the sounds of other travelers and often taking long detours around potential conﬂicts.

It was puzzling behavior; more than that, it was a disquieting thing for Arithor to endure.

After another day spent ducking patrols and getting brambles  stuck in his armor, Arithor found himself no closer to an understanding than before. Granden had the conﬁdence to travel alone through dangerous territory; Arithor knew that much already, and  also that such nonchalance implied power. It took strength of will to forge ahead without any guidance save that of the Light itself. In every way, Granden should have been the embodiment of the path that Arithor had chosen -- every way, save for his ironclad restraint.

Arithor tried his best to ignore his doubts as he paged through his libram. Their ﬁre was small, kept stunted by careful applications of dirt and damp wood chips, so that it smoldered like a sleeping drake. The smoke was heavy and rolled around his feet, but it sank quickly into the underbrush and did not give away their position.

Granden had ﬁrst watch; by all rights, Arithor should  have been sleeping, but restlessness kept him awake. Between paragraphs, he snatched glimpses of the other paladin as Granden tended to the ﬁre. With a practiced hand, Granden stirred up the ash with a  slowly- charring branch, banking any embers that threatened to blaze. Nothing about the man seemed at all worried about being hemmed in by the undead on one side, and Scarlets on the other -- and yet, he refused to risk combat with either.

_ Tenacity,  _ Arithor read, turning his attention back to his libram and pretending to be engrossed.  _ Tenacity can, at times, be our only guide, leading us through uncertainty when all other roads have been obscured. _

_ _ "Will you be returning to Felstone after this?"

Marking his place with a crook of his knuckle, Arithor glanced back up. "Yes. I've set my mind to clearing it, and I don't plan to back down. It's important to persevere. Otherwise, nothing would get done -- and you've seen how no one else really tries to ﬁx the place. Someone has to be willing to shoulder that role."

Part of him was hoping that Granden would ask more -- but the other paladin simply made a grunt of acknowledgment. Left with only half a conversation to try and nurture, Arithor forged ahead blindly. "It's part of the practice of Tenacity. Were they teaching the Virtues in your day, sir?"

A laugh rippled out of Granden. "I'm not nearly  _ that  _ old. Yes, I'm aware of what they are. I wonder," the man added cryptically, "how they're teaching them in yours."

Magnanimous enough to overlook any implied insult, Arithor inclined his head in acknowledgment. "That's wise of you to say. I wouldn't know. I left the Order to follow the Light. So far, it's led me here. Was it the same for you?"

Unfortunately, the question did not unearth any new revelations about the man. Granden simply set the branch aside and began to relace his boots. "I'd imagine the Light has better things to do than concern itself with me. Otherwise, it might be kind enough as to grow a patch of Tears beside my pillow while I sleep."

"The Light, growing  _ Arthas'  _ Tears?" The outburst of scorn was surprisingly refreshing; being polite for so long was starting to grate on Arithor's nerves. "With a name like that, you'll be lucky if the foul things haven't been all exterminated. Perhaps that's why we're having such problems ﬁnding any."

Looping a strand of leather around his ﬁngers, Granden pinched a knot closed and adjusted one of the buckles running across his shin. "I've heard it said that the ﬂowers have been here for generations, and were simply given the name because they survived in this blighted wasteland." He shook his head and started on his second boot, undaunted by Arithor's mockery. "The plants themselves are blameless. They existed before Arthas, and -- if fate is willing -- will exist long after we are but memory. The cause for their name hardly matters, in the end."

Left fumbling for a retort, Arithor found little to latch onto. He stared down at the lines of text printed on his libram; the words blurred together, blending into nonsense. Like a stone that weathered storm and sun in equal measure, Granden was unmoved by his surroundings. Nothing Arithor had said had provoked the man to any reaction other than bemusement. None of Arithor's deference had encouraged Granden to open up, either.

The lack of response was infuriating. Thwarted, Arithor's bile curled in upon itself and began to hiss. _No human being has the right to be this unmoved while in the_ ** _Plaguelands._** _Of all places in the world,_ ** _this_** _wasteland should rally any courageous soul to act._

One quick glance drove his spirits even down further. Granden had ﬁnished the patchwork repairs to his boots, and was leaﬁng patiently through the maps, sorting them by locations they had checked. The breeze rustled past, rattling the withered trees. Deeper in the woods, the tortured groan of a bear wheezed distantly, undermined by pain. Granden did not appear to even notice.

Arithor jerked his gaze away. _I thought I found someone like me,_ he thought bitterly. _Instead, I found a coward._


	10. Chapter 9

Morning in Silithus found both the Alliance and Horde camps primed for action, as teams were assembled and prepared to ﬁnally continue the assault upon Ahn'Qiraj. Some guilds had been ready before dawn and were paying the price: the reek of strong coffee brewed in lockstep was thick on the desert air. Armored ﬁghters blinked peevishly at the gates, jostling one another as they checked and rechecked their supplies.

Other teams had kept sentries waiting to alert them at any sign of activity from the Victorious, and -- as the distinctive chevron banners ﬁnally began to stir -- runners were moving from tent to tent to warn those who had been holding their strength in reserve for any news.

The sun found the Brigade in neither category. Apart from a few early risers, most of the guild had taken their commander's orders to heart, sleeping in to enjoy the rare opportunity for laziness. Several hunters were keeping tabs on the progress of the rest of the Alliance camp, passing spyglasses back and forth while lounging on wagon perches. A few of them were trading wagers about how long it would take before the ﬁrst guild gave up for the day.

Jenna, for once, was not participating in any bets. She was lingering outside the officers' tent.

Her eavesdropping had not been planned. While on the way to breakfast, she had caught sight of Liasin's team returning safely from their bounty run -- but without any signs of the prize they should have captured. Though she hadn't read the posting details, Jenna had expected it would be a standard job. Cenarion Hold should have demanded some piece of rubble or obsidian chunk that would prove the victory unquestionably.

But any treasure Liasin's team might have carried was invisible. None of them had shown signs of combat engagement either; their armor was unmarred, stained only by the dust of the road. No wounds had been apparent. Once they had reached the Brigade tents, Liasin had dismissed his team and gone on alone, his shoulders slumped as no victor's should have been.

Baffled, Jenna had stalked him all the way to his check-in with Blackwind. The dwarf had not taken the news well.

Practiced enough to creep along the west wall of the tent -- where her silhouette would hopefully not be outlined by the morning sun -- Jenna did her best to try and puzzle out the words being spoken. Several supply crates had been wedged up against the tent to pin down the canvas; she huddled up against them, listening to Liasin stumble through an explanation about StormLine taking the bounty instead. When Farion joined her, she forestalled his greeting with a shushing ﬂap  of her hand. The night elf started to open his mouth anyway, and then closed it, picking a spot beside her.

In the tent, Liasin was summoning up another round of defense. "You said yourself that we should always act with honor, Blackwind."

"And we were there ﬁrst," their commander snapped. "Do you think StormLine'll feed us? Pay our wages? Our rent, our travel fare? This is  _ business,  _ Liasin, as much as we conduct ourselves otherwise."

"I like StormLine," Liasin protested. "And they got there so quickly after we did -- I wanted to give them a chance at it."

"Then next time, ﬂip a bloody  _ coin  _ with 'em!" Blackwind roared. "It wasn't your call to make! That bounty would have fed two of our teams, easy. Even if I docked your rations to compensate, we'd still come up short -- and you'd be useless without repaired armor and a meal to keep you going. Wake up, Liasin! The guild can't get anything done if it can't even take care of itself!"

Both of them fell silent then, as Blackwind huffed and cursed, agitated as a badger roused from its den.

"I'm not going to dock yer wages," he ﬁnally gritted out; Jenna leaned closer to the tent wall to keep from missing any words. "It's enough that ye know how the rest of us have to pay for your decision. That bounty -- you took away money that would've paid for food and lodgings, as well as the kill under their belt that your team  _ should  _ have had the right to brag about.  _ You  _ chose this. You were their leader and they obeyed. There has to be some consequence. I'm restricting the paladins for the next month."

Liasin made an anguished noise in his throat.

"I see a single one of 'em on the front lines, they get benched," Blackwind continued ruthlessly. "No point defense, no melee. You wanted paladins to be respected? They can do it as healers."

When Liasin's voice came next, it was reined in tightly enough that Jenna almost missed it, hard and cold as an anvil's ﬂat. "We're able to safeguard groups, Blackwind. You know yourself that I'm capable of leading a team safely through without any losses, whether it's Scholomance or Dire Maul. Have you forgotten that time in Stratholme when I fought in a  _ dress  _ just on that ridiculous dare to prove that I could?"

" _ No one  _ won that day," Blackwind said sourly. "I don't care if there was gold involved."

"Punish  _ me  _ then. Just me. Restrict  _ me,  _ Blackwind. I have a hard enough time trying to reconcile the paladins together as it is! People already think I only tolerate healing for us."

"And now  _ you  _ can be the perfect example for  them, can't you!" The crash of metal hitting wood echoed through the tent; Blackwind must have struck a table with his ﬁst. "This isn't  punishment!" he snapped. "It's what we need! The warriors'll be our front line -- it'll stop their complaints as well. We need good healers to back us up. You say you  _can _ heal well -- so  _ do it! _ "

Jenna winced; beside her, she saw Farion do the same. She scooped up a handful of sand, trickling it back out through her ﬁngers, drawing snail- trails and spirals. "Would have been less cruel to hit him," she muttered.

"But necessary. Blackwind's right." Farion rocked back into a crouch against the supply boxes. His scabbard slid up against the wood; he straightened it automatically. "One man makes a noble gesture, it's not just him suffering for it. We all do. Problem is," he added, "now Blackwind just went and gave our tents a quarrel after all. Paladins're going to hate warriors even more for this."

"Yeah, well, this is Blackwind. He does stupid things when he's upset. Hey!" she yelled suddenly without care for Farion's ears, bouncing up to her feet and circling around the tent's perimeter. "Liasin, are you in there?"

He emerged a few seconds later, still looking harried, his helmet off under his arm. Dust clung to his armor; there was a distinctive glitter of silithyst that he must have ridden  through, caught by the drifting clouds. Lethargy slept on his hip.

"Sorry," he said. "Blackwind -- ah, Blackwind."

Breaking off there, the paladin turned his head from side to side, tense enough to go mute rather than  complain aloud. Thoughtful enough not to admit to her eavesdropping, Jenna spared him any questions. She studied him skeptically, but he did not seem as close to the edge of his nerves as he had been the day before; if she hadn't seen his execution of the Silithid, she would have blamed the distracted look in his eyes to be from Blackwind's dressing-down alone.

"You'll miss the Vics going in," she offered. "Figured we could at least watch the parade, even if we're skipping out on the party until later. You up for it?"

Liasin ﬁnally focused on her. "Yes," he managed. "Let's go."  
  


* * *

 

Despite all the fuss involving their attendance, the actual entry of the Victorious into the Temple was -- in Jenna's opinion -- anticlimactic.

Finding a clear spot on  one of the supply carts, Jenna hitched  herself up to the top of the wagonbed and ﬁlched the nearest spyglass. Through it, she watched the other guild ﬁnally gather their supplies and  shuffle out of the way, half of them forming up ranks to march into the Temple while the other half headed back down the slope towards their main camp.  _ Politics,  _ she thought irritably. There was no point in dwelling on how much time had been wasted by pettiness. The Cenarion authorities must have been equally irate, but the Victorious were masters at greasing the way; someone  _ somewhere  _ had been paid off, and the world continued on its way.

As soon as the last Victorious had vanished through the gates, the next

guild pushed forward. Jenna teased the ring of her spyglass over to them. Surprisingly, they were Alliance -- normally the Cenarion allowed for alternations between Horde and Alliance, in a token attempt at fairness. Officers from the Hold were already stepping forward in greeting; by the upraised white hammer on the second guild's tabards, Jenna recognized the Truesilver Arms.

The logistics were tedious, but Jenna knew enough to expect  it. During the course of the war against Ahn'Qiraj, it had become  standard procedure for officers from Cenarion Hold to meet with representatives from each guild before they went in.  It was a complicated system, but one that had been born from unfortunate necessity; with so many guilds upon the ﬁeld, it was  far too easy to have accidents occur on either side of the gate. Trying to physically ﬁt troops in an orderly manner through a single point was not as simple as it sounded. Naxxramas suffered similarly, with guilds camped  out around the entry portal, waiting for their chance to assault the Citadel; the Argent Dawn had their hands full in trying to manage the quarrels that would break out at a moment's notice as Horde and Alliance tested the boundaries of the fragile peace.

The Truesilver Arms ﬁnished their roll call and moved ahead, handing off the reins of their steeds to the members of their guild who were staying out. Almost immediately, a Horde guild stepped forward to replace them. The crowd was densely packed; it would take most of the morning to sort through all the adventurers, each of them eager to try and overcome the lead the Victorious had claimed by being ﬁrst.

Seeing the Truesilver steeds being led away nagged at Jenna's mind.  It was common sense to leave mounts at the gate -- few riding animals had the proper traction required to navigate the lower tunnels  of the hive, and the beasts that did invariably became skittish when confronted by the pervasive insect  _ chirr.  _ Capturing the Silithid drones had become a necessity for transit. Most guilds only brought their mounts to the steps before handing them over.

_ Did the Vics take their horses in?  _ she wondered.  _ Or am I just imagining things? _

She was still mulling over the incongruity when the obsidian guardians came charging out of the Temple.

As massive as if a mountain range itself had come to life, four Anubisath Sentinels burst out of the gate. Their heavy feet thudded like pistons, aiming for Horde and Alliance indiscriminately. Shouts rang out, made tinny by distance. As the crowd struggled to rally in response, Jenna thought she saw two riders on horseback bolting away from the Sentinels, weaving through the ranks assembled on the massive steps, moving recklessly enough that they risked breaking one of their horse's legs with a casual misstep.

United, the guilds might have had a chance. But, faced with the sudden onslaught, none of them were listening to  each other. Pride spurred them on, with melee shoving one another out of the way in search of footing, and each warrior striving to have their taunts sound louder than the others. Control went wild. Ignoring all caution, mages unleashed their most powerful spells; warlocks wove potent curses in ﬂares of black smoke. Hunters offered arrows and shot. Torn between so many targets, the Sentinels spun from one threat to another, swinging their boulder-sized ﬁsts with lethal accuracy.

Jenna twitched her spyglass from statue to statue, observing the  fray with the casual curiosity of an onlooker far enough away from the ﬁght to know that she was safe. One warrior had  managed to attract two of the statues at once; he was staggering beneath their assault, backed up desperately by his guildmates as they clustered in a frightened mass against one of the walls. Another warrior fought frantically beside him, hammering at the second Sentinel with his shield, with all the effectiveness of a ﬂy battering a rock.

Then a ﬂick of a dark wing caught Jenna's attention. Bewildered, she searched among the combatants, picking methodically through the whirlwind of ﬁghters, squinting through the ﬂash of spells and spatter of arrows until she glimpsed the lion-faced beast a second time.

"Eradicator," she cursed softly.

Blackwind had noticed it as well. "Drain it!" the dwarf roared. He had snatched a spyglass and was peering through it, frantic at the distant struggle. A white nimbus was gathering steadily around the winged statue, its power being nursed like a candle in the wind. "The fools, no one's  _ draining  _ it -- "

The light that had congealed around the Eradicator peaked suddenly, ﬂaring like a miniature sun.

Then it exploded.

Even insulated by the distance, Jenna still felt the shockwave. It shuddered through the air; she braced herself against the wagon, turning her head aside in an instinctive wince. Blackwind snarled, wheeling his spyglass back to the gates. What he saw made him suck in his breath with a hiss.

Jenna yanked her spyglass back up to her face. In a vast radius  around the Eradicator, bodies lay prone, crumpled like a farmer ﬂattening down the hay. The slumped shapes of animals blemished the ground, dead where they had fallen. Voices that had rang with battle commands were silent. Nothing stirred.

Screams rose in a fresh tide as the Anubisath Sentinels lunged forward, hungry for new targets. They descended down the stairwell through the ring of bodies that the Eradicator had cleared, crushing the adventurers unlucky enough to be trapped in front. Even as the  four giants spread out, a second set of Sentinels lumbered through the gates, lifting their heads mutely to scent the air.

Horses reared and shrieked. Nightsabers bunched their powerful hindquarters and tried to spring out of the way, only to ﬁnd themselves slamming into the thickly-packed crowd. Massive kodos  snorted, swinging their heads in powerful arcs. A raptor wailed and lashed out in terror, scoring lines down the ﬂank of one of its own comrades.

In seconds, the ﬁght turned into a stampede. Self-preservation overcame heroism. Adventurers were trampled underfoot as the chaos spread outwards, the guilds abandoning any thoughts of  holding the line as they turned to ﬂee. A Cenarion banner rippled, and then collapsed.

Blackwind slammed the spyglass closed. "Defense!"

Liasin vaulted off the wagon instantly, his orders already in place. "Natalie! Maslin! With the healer camp!" he cried. "Elijah -- watch the noncombatants! Ironhand, you're with me and the warriors -- go, go!"

Jenna was quick to follow, landing on her feet with  a jangle of chain. Farion had no immediate assignment for her -- he was busy strapping on his shield, the glow of enchantments twining around his body as his healers began to fortify him to withstand  an assault. She oriented herself instead to the rogues that had started to gather in the center of the camp, eyeing the conﬂict uneasily while they uncorked their poisons.

The Brigade hunters had broken the perimeter, already mounted up; the night elf sisters were on their lithe riding cats, circling  the Brigade camp in watchfulness for incoming threats. In their haste to abandon the stairs of Ahn'Qiraj, the guilds were attracting the attention of smaller Silithids, dragging behind them spiders and burrowers that bit at their heels. As an entire pack of wasps descended on one guild, Jenna felt her stomach lurch. The Brigade would have to weather more than just the Alliance and Horde -- they would also have to endure the insects, which had no reason to avoid bloodshed.

Farion was a steady rock in the madness, uncowed as he moved to take up position directly between the Brigade tents and Ahn'Qiraj. With the night elf at the fore, the defensive line formed a living shield against any riders that might try to plunge through the tents haphazardly. Months of ﬁghting together had honed many of the Brigade into effective smaller units; priests looked for plate, the druids split up smoothly, and the paladins were already rattling off prayers to the Light. It was equal testament to the hours they had spent in combat together that none of them were panicking.

All of them knew their skill could only last so long against a cavalry charge.

As the ﬁrst wave of riders drew closer, Jenna found herself weighing her options. If she was careless and killed someone from the Alliance, she would be certain to wind up punished. If it was someone from the Horde, Blackwind would at least have stern words for her.  _ But if it was someone I didn't like, I could always claim it was an accident,  _ she reasoned. There were any number of people she could think of who would beneﬁt from a concussion.

The opportunity pleased her until she realized the other half of her logic.  _ Anyone who dislikes  _ **_me_ ** _ could pull the same trick. Acid and ash! I  _ **_knew_ ** _ I shouldn't have cheated that Truesilver rogue at cards. _

_ _ The ﬁrst few riders pounded by, not even sparing the Brigade a glance as they ﬂed towards Cenarion Hold. Effortlessly, Farion picked off one of the Silithid burrowers that chased them, catching its ﬁrst attack on his shield and ﬂipping it aside to smash its shell in. The hunters were already in action, ﬂat metal cages dangling from their ﬁsts as they swept out, priming their traps in a haphazard semicircle between the Gates and the camp.

The next set of riders came over the dunes at  a breakneck clip. Unlike the ﬁrst, these ones did not keep to the road, pelting headlong with no thought save to escape the devastation behind them. Their speed made  it impossible to swerve. They plowed into the nest of hunter traps without stopping; two of them hit the trip wires, while a third drove his ram directly across one of the plates. With a sharp series of  _ cracks _ , the packed chemicals detonated, mixing together and belching out a thin layer of snow that coated the ground and bogged the riders down as surely as if they had stumbled into quicksand.

The remaining dwarf simply bunched his shoulders as he saw the defenses arrayed against him, and plunged his ram forward through the Brigade line.

At the last moment, Farion sidestepped. The dwarf streaked past, tearing up the remains of several campﬁres before smashing into a supply wagon.

Runners of a different type were reaching them now -- druids that had shifted into various feline shapes, along with the ghostly wolf-forms of Horde shamans. Stray mounts were galloping along uncontrolled, having lost their riders to insects or simply having torn free of their mooring posts; they mingled with the adventurers in a massive stampede. Dust kicked up behind them in vast plumes. Silithids were on their heels.

As Jenna watched, one of the wasps swooped in, latching onto a gnome like a tick. It pinched off the man's head as easily as plucking a grape. Blood sprayed in a ragged fountain; the mecharider went tumbling, mechanical legs pumping uselessly. Triumphant, the Silithid launched itself back into the air, wings humming, discarding the skull in the dirt.

Panicked by the attack, the gnome's guildmates scattered, trying to dodge the mass of Silithids behind them. They tore through the Brigade's spent traps, tossing the now-useless plates aside. Nightsabers thrashed and roared, picking up their paws.

Farion met them with his shield.

Fully aware that even his armored mass could not stand up directly against a charging steed, the night elf sought instead to turn them. He lifted his shield like a wall against the nearest nightsaber, hoping to attract its attention and discourage it from its headlong plunge. At the last second, it veered -- and behind it, a Silithid wasp darted through.

Liasin, temporarily separated from Farion's ﬂank, whirled to track the insect's progress. As it raked its talons down towards one of the hunters, he extended his arm with a shout; a crimson glow ﬂickered brieﬂy around his ﬁngers, vanishing from his hand to reappear in a miasma around the hunter. The Silithid screeched as the night elf barely managed to twist out of the way, earning himself a scrape.

Linked by the blessing, a mirroring gash opened up on Liasin's temple, opened by an invisible knife.

Realizing his inattention, Jenna cried warning. "Liasin!"

He whipped his head around towards her, startled; then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the threat she was trying to warn him about. Massive enough to shake the ground, the war kodo plowing towards him lowered its head with a bellow. The tauren on its back was roaring something Jenna could not understand, swinging a ﬂanged greatmace as a deterrent as it thundered towards the paladin.

Instinct alone saved the paladin from being crushed. At the last second, Liasin shouted a prayer; a shell of light sprang up  around him, answering his need. The kodo batted the sphere aside as it thundered past -- but Liasin only stumbled back, unharmed, protected by his faith.

Chaos was all around them now. The outskirts of the camp were being shredded. Mages crafted blizzards and winds to drive  back the riders that had looped around the line and were cutting through the Brigade tents. Polymorph spells crackled, changing adventurers and beasts alike into sheep that tumbled helplessly to the  ground like ﬂuffy tumbleweeds. The rogues were putting their acrobatics to the test, darting back and forth as they interspersed handfuls of blinding powder with wicked strikes to debilitate any enemy they could reach. Jenna was doing her best to keep up with them, swapping her punch-daggers from hand to hand before she relented, and reached for her swords.

As she spun around, digging her heels into the sand to keep from sliding, ice rushed past her face in a wave -- near enough that her next breath came out puffed in a cloud. The mages had ﬁnished a fresh set of incantations, seeking to lock down an incoming rider in solid chunks of ice. The nova was poorly timed, unable to encase the horse completely past its front knees; it screamed as its forward momentum kept it going in a tumble. Jenna heard the crunch of a bone as its legs shattered against its own weight. Its rider, pitched headlong, was caught by one foot in the stirrups, jerked like a puppet on a string. The man's wail was cut off suddenly as he was smashed against the ground, buried by over a thousand pounds of horseﬂesh.

"Liasin!" Shield braced squarely in front of him, blood smeared across his beard, Ironhand jerked his chin towards the Gates. "Move up to Farion! Put that sword of yers to use!"

Liasin visibly recoiled. "They'll be trampled if I do!"

"And  _ we'll  _ be trampled if ye don't! Go! I'll watch you and Farion both!"

For a moment, the paladin seemed about to protest. Then he ﬁrmed his mouth with a nod. Even as he ran, he was  forced to dodge the riders that were streaking past; the hunter traps were exhausted of their potency, and did nothing to dull their speed. He took up position beside the warrior, both of them looking out towards the panicked stampede.

As Jenna watched, he drew his sword.

Familiar with the prickle of the sword's enchantments -- the way they crawled along the edge of her nerves, making her paranoid even if she wasn't Liasin's opponent -- Jenna shuddered. Lethargy was not a ﬂashy weapon; it did not shine or lace the air with bolts of power, but she knew enough to be wary. She had no desire to fall under its inﬂuence.

Lowering his head, Liasin paused, tracing the point of the blade  along the sands. His shield was down, hanging loose at his side. His attention seemed lost.

Then he lifted his chin, and began to ﬁght.

Stepping out of the way as the next horse came  in, he ﬂicked Lethargy in a shallow cut across its ﬂank. Another  nightsaber pounced from the side, its eyes wide with panic; Farion blocked  it in a high guard, leaving an opening for Liasin to duck into. The giant cat  screamed, turning to claw at the night elf, but the paladin was quick enough to drive Lethargy into its haunch, yanking up the blade in an arc towards the rider's leg.

Before the nightsaber could twist around to escape, its movements began to falter. It stumbled, and then skidded into a long sprawl, eyes tightly shut. Its rider was equally unlucky. Though Jenna could not see any visible wounds, Liasin was stepping away with a grimace; the rider appeared to be as unconscious as his steed.

_ Time for a nap,  _ Jenna thought with grim satisfaction, and kicked vindictively at one Silithid burrower until its underbelly shattered into ooze.

Like Farion, Liasin fought strategically. They both allowed the Silithids  to be lured through to the second line, where the insects could be taken down and destroyed by more aggressive ﬁghters. Roused into combat, Lethargy's inﬂuence spread like a plague. One by one, the riders  clipped by the sword inevitably slowed; the ones that sought to engage Liasin directly collapsed even faster. Their bodies fanned across the ground. As predicted, they became living roadblocks, interspersed with mage-summoned ice and roots pulled from deep within the earth. Incoming riders were forced to choose between  steering clear, or colliding with the unconscious mass.

But the defense was effective. If it was a shorter ﬁght -- if it had been a battle that required bloodthirst, not patience -- then the outcome might have been different. Yet Liasin fought only to score them with the blade, allowing Lethargy to build up a slow, sleepy charge in the air, winding around those it had marked. The sword's magic latched onto their bones and dragged them down, as surely as if iron weights had been affixed to their limbs. Some succumbed quickly, slipping into  unconsciousness before they even hit the ground. Others managed to free themselves from being trapped beneath their steeds, crawling laboriously away before they ﬁnally collapsed.

Ironhand had made a timely decision. The spray of victims was  a crude, but effective deterrent. Liasin and Farion worked smoothly in tandem as the night elf distracted incoming  assailants, maneuvering precisely across the ﬁeld to stagger their positions. Slowly, the charge of riders began to ebb, turned away from the Brigade camp like a river ﬂowing around a rock. Those that were unable to stop crashed against the fallen -- but not into the vulnerable tents of the camp.

As the frantic pace of the battle began to ebb, Jenna found  herself panting for breath next to one of the rogues; the man's hands were brimming with black vials, trying to recoat his  daggers. He had paused in his task to stare at the mix of bodies, eventually shaking his head in a low whistle. "Imagine that blade in the hands of a warrior," he breathed.

_ Aye, or in the hands of someone who didn't feel guilty using it,  _ Jenna thought. Aloud, she snapped, "Imagine it gutting us all if we don't focus. Come on!"

Even as she spoke, two Silithid wasps darted in, swooping  over the barrier of the unconscious bodies. Jenna thrust at one with her sword, aiming for the junction of its leg to its thorax.  It twisted at the last minute; wickedly-hooked claws slid past her guard. A hot ﬂare ran down her arm where one connected. She ignored the pain doggedly, taking advantage of the opening to split the insect's wing open, sawing  down the delicate membranes with a sound like tearing paper. It spun to the ground, screeching. She ended its thrashing by plunging her sword into a gleaming eye.

But before Jenna had a chance to join the front line with Farion, the ﬁght was already over. The mass of the retreating guilds had not ﬁnished passing them before Blackwind came to a decision.

"Portals up!" The dwarf had taken to his ram; he wheeled his mount around through the confusion, ﬂapping a signal banner like a broken kite. "Regroup at Light's Hope! Back to Naxxramas!"

Speechless with rage, Jenna nearly dropped her weapons. "No!" she roared, when she could ﬁnd her tongue. "We can't afford to leave now! We just  _ got  _ here -- we'll fall too far behind!"

"Then pay yer own portal fee!" the dwarf bellowed. "Or rot here 'til we're ready to come back!"

She fought back a snarl, slamming her swords back into their sheaths so quickly that she nearly clipped herself. Lunging through the crowd, she made her way the hitching lines; she unlooped Flea's reins with trembling ﬁngers, hauling herself onto the mare's back and jabbing her heels in. The horse squealed, but obeyed, kicking up sand in divots as she sprang away.

Half-blind with fury, Jenna drove the horse away from the camp. Her guildmates were already scrambling to heed Blackwind's command, unmooring tents and shoving boxes onto wagons. Supplies that had been unpacked only that morning went right back into their crates, stacked haphazardly into piles.

"Let her go!" she heard Blackwind ordering behind her. "She wants to sit out so bad, she will!"

Ahn'Qiraj fell away behind her as she rode, with no destination in mind save to leave the doomed Gates behind. The desert opened endlessly wide. Gusts of sand rippled in veils across the dunes. Dipped in murky gold by the dust-covered sun, Silithus's desolation became more obvious the further one traveled away from the encampments; jagged stones shoved their way up through the dunes like debris  after an explosion that had been left to decay. Interspersed between them were the marbled tunnels of the Silithids, and the wriggling tails of sandworms out on the hunt.

A chill cut through her ire. As skilled as she might be, Jenna was also alone. If she was caught by any of the larger Silithid patrols -- or by Twilight Marauders -- they would rip her apart.

A quick glance behind her proved her wrong. Liasin and Farion had disobeyed their commander, along with their duty. Having taken to their mounts in chase, their distant forms ﬂanked her in an even split: Liasin on her right side, Farion on the other.

Flea labored on the sands, unsuited to the desert. The mare's hooves labored for traction. Gritting her teeth as she was  jostled, Jenna drove the horse mercilessly forward, unwilling to be caught. But no matter how she dodged, weaving around the shattered boulders and veering dangerously close to the banners of Twilight cultists, Farion and Liasin would not be deterred. They chased implacably, letting her wear herself down, until ﬁnally she could feel Flea slowing no matter how hard she dug her heels into the horse's ﬂanks.

Forced to halt, Jenna slid out of the saddle. Her legs were shaking. The blood in her veins thrummed from the desperate ride. Her feet refused  to obey properly; she wanted to run, to keep running, to leave everything in the  _ world  _ behind in an inferno that rivaled  the sun. But Flea had failed her. At the end of Jenna's ﬂight, there had been nothing but an empty desert, and anger.

Thwarted, she threw her head back and screamed.

"Jenna," Liasin was saying beside her, his voice thin with strain. "Your arm's bleeding, let me look at that. Jenna. Jenna, please calm down -- "

She turned and swung blindly with the pommel of her dagger -- but Farion was there, parrying her forearm with his own in a cross-check. The impact rattled her bracer. She twisted around, uncertain if she was swinging blade-ﬁrst or blunt, wild with frustration. The back of her hand was gripped and wrenched to the side; she lost her dagger, watched it spin in a glittering arc to the sand.

When she whipped her head around in a snarl towards the night elf, Farion did not ﬂinch. He stared her down until she stopped struggling, and only then did he loosen the pressure.

"Liasin," he said sternly, not raising his voice. "You're hurt too. Fix yourself ﬁrst."

The paladin went silent in surprise. When he spoke again, his tone was abashed. The confusion had returned to it, making it lost, befuddled. "I -- you're right. Sorry. I didn't notice. I was -- "

The rest of his words were lost as Jenna staggered away, weaving like a drunkard. She clenched her ﬁsts uselessly at her sides and howled again, not caring who might hear, the long cry of rage rising like a falcon to the uncaring dragons that wheeled above.  
  


* * *

 

Even with the ﬁre burning high, Arithor was still cold.

The Scarlet patrols had been thick around the Northridge Lumber Camp, turning the two paladins away from searching the mill directly. Granden had insisted that they avoid as much confrontation as  possible, until ﬁnally they had been pushed all the way to the mountains, cowering beneath Hearthglen's shadow like skittish rats. Left with no explanation, Arithor had taken to brooding. His own foul mood gave him little peace. While Granden did not try to apologize for his decisions, neither did he offer any reassurance either, forcing Arithor to guess at the other man's motivations.

Arithor's conclusions had not been good.

_ I can't believe I wanted this man's validation -- the validation of a coward.  _ Aimlessly, he prodded at the ﬁre with a twig, watching the heat slowly blacken the outer bark. Granden had volunteered to take the waterskins and reﬁll them at a small river they had passed, leaving Arithor alone to watch the camp.  _ I can't believe I wanted his support. _

The realization disgusted him. Always before, Arithor had lived without wanting or needing anyone's approval. To be disarmed so easily by a stranger was humiliating.  _ He's eroding my faith in myself. That's what it is. He's affecting my principles with his entire attitude. _

The twig in his ﬁngers crunched as Arithor compressed his hand.

The truth was rapidly becoming clear.  _ I can't allow that. My own faith in  _ **_myself_ ** _ is my strength. It forms the basis of my connection to the Light. I  _ **_refuse_ ** _ to lose it. _

Fresh conﬁdence blazed like hot gold in his veins, scouring the cobwebs from his thoughts. It banished his  doubts cleanly. Spreading through him in a wave of grace, its presence renewed his strength -- and as it did, he knew the Light was with him, telling him he was  _ right. _

By the time that Granden returned to the camp, bloated waterskins swinging from his shoulder, Arithor was prepared to act.

The older paladin approached the refuge slowly; he did not trample the underbrush, moving at an unhurried pace. The jangle of his chainmail was conﬁned to a whisper, matted by leather and cloth. The waterskins had been looped in pairs to balance out their mass. They swayed gently with each step, bumping their leather bodies together like ripened fruit.

"We're in luck," he suggested as he ﬁnally stepped into the ring  of ﬁrelight. Carefully, he set the skins down beside the travel packs, letting them settle in a cluster. "I found some Arthas' Tears near the riverbed. If we're cautious, and loop around the Scarlet tents positioned near there, we might be able to ﬁnd more tomorrow."

As Granden moved onto the task of feeding the ﬁre, gathering an armful of branches and snapping them into smaller lengths, Arithor remained silent.

Eventually, the older paladin glanced up from his work. Catching sight of the stare that had been leveled in his direction, he paused, meeting the hostility head-on. He did not bother to feign innocence. "What's wrong?"

The words hung heavy in the air, like a gate that could not be closed again once it had been breached. Arithor refused to be intimidated. He had never been afraid to voice his own opinion before. He wasn't about to start now.

"There's something I've been wondering, old man. I  _ ﬁght  _ for what I believe in. If I can't be bothered to chase my own goals, no one else can be expected to do it for me. What about you? Why won't  _ you  _ ﬁght?"

Slowly, Granden set the ﬁrewood aside, lowering himself to a crouch and resting his wrists on his knees. The leather of his boots  creaked; one of his ankles made its protest with a muffled  _ click  _ of bone. He kept his gaze ﬁxed on Arithor, hands loose, ﬁngers dangling like a clump of willow branches. "I have my reasons," he answered steadily. "If you can't respect that, then perhaps we should part ways here. I thank you for your pains in aiding me, and wish you luck upon your road."

Irritated by the lack of an argument to pit himself against, Arithor did not relent. "Whatever made you this spineless, I should applaud it. Tell me, when did you stop being a champion for the Light? Did they discharge you dishonorably, and you snuck out in the night with your mount like a horse-thief?"

Firelight rippled. Having devoured its upper layer of dampened leaves, the blaze began to visibly crackle as it gnawed through  the fresh branches stacked for its fuel. Granden did not move to bank it. "I left of my own will. When the Order of the Silver Hand suffered its losses, after Stratholme, I chose to pursue my own path. The Light  has not abandoned me for doing what I feel is right."

"So you ran away."

Even that barb did not seem to strike home. Granden's tone was unaltered; his body language remained calm, as untouchable as before. "You twist my words, Arithor, when you should know better."

"Know? I  _ know  _ I don't appreciate being played for a fool!"

As soon as the admission burst out, Arithor tensed; the last thing he needed was to be confronted on just how highly he had regarded the other paladin. He swapped tactics instantly. "Would you really swim across a lake just to avoid a few skeletons, old man?"

"I might wade. A person would have to be mad to try swimming the entire way -- mad, or foolhardy. Luckily, I have little to prove, so I can take an indirect route." Granden's voice was mild; Arithor could not tell if it had descended into mockery. The words themselves were cutting, rife with implication, but their delivery was calm. "You might want to think about that sometime."

Pressed at last to the brink -- desperate for any excuse to be incited -- Arithor felt his temper hone itself down to a narrow point. He welcomed the shift gladly, feeling aggression rise behind his eyes like a predator scenting the wind. "Are you challenging me?"

Keeping his balance in a crouch, Granden spread his hands. "I am a man who is past his prime. My muscles are slack from wearing  mail rather than plate, and leathers rather than mail. There is a weakness in the bones of my left knee that refuses to pass. When the winter comes, my bones feel like sticks rubbing  together underneath my skin. Do you really believe that engaging in a quarrel with me will solve all the problems of your faith?"

"No," Arithor replied, "but sometimes it makes them simpler."

He sprang forward before Granden had any time to prepare, going sidelong around the ﬁre and launching himself off the ground with  his full mass balled behind a shoulder. The intention was simple. By ripping the man's libram from his side and claiming it as a prize, Arithor could take the proof of Granden's paladin status away -- and thereby demonstrate his strength in the bargain, earning respect by force. His hand extended in an eager swipe.

But Granden was  no longer there.

Surprisingly agile, the older paladin had twisted away to the side, using the glare of the ﬁre to mask the direction of his retreat. He rolled back into the darkness like a cat. As  Arithor wasted precious time in regaining his bearings, plate armor impairing his mobility, Granden shifted further to place more of the blaze between them.

Positions reversed now, Granden regarded Arithor across the sullen ﬂames. "I have no desire to ﬁght you," he warned, still low to the ground. The ﬁre obscured the shape of him, blotting out his  silhouette. "I've lapsed from my principles enough lately."

Arithor took in a deep breath. "Then we are not in agreement, old man."

He darted forward again, heels digging clots of dirt out of the moist soil. Granden caught him this time, turning as he did to twist Arithor's weight around. Momentum spun the younger paladin like a child's top. Granden did not waste any time  in trying to outmuscle Arithor, changing his grip to hook Arithor's belt, yanking forward even as he turned his hip.

Granden's foot tangled in Arithor's legs, spilling him.

As he fell, Arithor grabbed wildly for whatever he could  reach; his ﬁngers caught and hooked themselves into the soft leather of a belt pouch, tearing the mouth of it open. Damp handfuls  of plant matter came out in clumps. He ﬂung them aside in disgust, cool petals sticking to his ﬁngers. Grappling was not his specialty; he was loathe to draw a weapon to make his point. He did  not want to kill the other paladin -- only humiliate him.

But Granden's maneuverability outstripped his own  by far. Unencumbered by the same degree of plate that Arithor wore, the older paladin stooped suddenly and seized the end of a branch in the ﬁre. He yanked it out in an arc, scattering sparks in a fan across Arithor's vision.

His eyes dazzled by the brilliance, Arithor threw up his hands in an instinctive attempt to shield them.

Suddenly, a ﬁst drove into his stomach, ﬁnding the join in his armor that was protected only by an expanse of chain. The blunt impact took him off-guard. It rattled the wind out of him, dropping his arms.  All too quickly, he found himself shoved to the ground. Cold mud crawled up around his collar. When he tried to shove a hand against the ground for leverage, a boot smashed into the knuckles of his gauntlet, causing him to go limp with a grunt of pain. The tendons hummed with numbness. Even though Arithor was protected by his armor, the metal still could transmit force; plate was most effective against blades, not against someone who knew how to leverage the weaknesses of its curving segments.

Violet petals blotched the dirt beside his face. The Arthas' Tears that Granden has so carefully gathered had been scattered during their ﬁght. The ﬂowers had been mashed into the soil -- trampled and useless.

Arithor stared at them, breathing hard.

"I didn't mean to lose my composure." At last, Granden's voice sounded frayed; the older paladin was pinning him down with his full weight across Arithor's spine. "That's twice in a row now that I've been getting involved where I shouldn't. Next, you'll tell me that you're not certain you're following the Virtues properly, or that you're not a very good paladin -- "

Arithor tried to turn his head; his gorget jabbed him in the throat. "What are you talking about, old man? I'm the  _ best, _ " he spat, ignoring the soil grinding into his cheek. He tried to scrabble again for leverage, but Granden had him trapped efficiently, keeping Arithor from being able to push himself up and hurl the man away.

Rather than succumb to the indignity of ﬂailing, Arithor shut his eyes. With his shoulders tensed, he could ignore the way his armor was pressing on his ribs. "You only won from cunning," he accused the other paladin. "Not strength."

"I won from experience." A hard knee shoved against Arithor's spine -- then Granden was off, stepping gingerly to the side. He was circumspect enough to move swiftly, out of arm's reach before Arithor could think to retaliate. "Surviving for enough years does that to a person."

Suddenly freed, Arithor rolled onto his back. The stars  above were barely visible, masked by clouds and by the spindly branches  of trees. He did not dignify his loss by addressing Granden further. Instead, he lay there, listening to the shuffle of supply packs and the whicker of the horses as Granden gathered his things.

The ﬁre hissed and crackled, leaking smoke. The noises of Granden's departure were brisk and methodical. Arithor lay there, tasting his own anger in his teeth as they eventually faded away.  
  


* * *

 

Coppershine wasted no time in rejecting  Farion's stack of supply requests. Hunkered down in the officer's tent with the same ferocity as if she were about to defend herself against an army,  the stout dwarf scanned over the lists Farion presented, and made a belligerent snort. Her pen slashed through rows of costs. Farion rescued the few orders that earned her approval, resigning himself to ﬁlling the others another day.

The Brigade's hasty retreat from Silithus had left the majority of their combat supplies behind. In accordance with protocol, the portion of the guild stationed at Ahn'Qiraj would fall back to Cenarion Hold, bringing the remaining tents and wagons with them. Only half of the guild's resources were intended to travel each time the Brigade swapped continents. Of that amount, very little had made it across before the mages had been forced to let their portals collapse.

Coppershine had been livid. Blackwind  was almost immediately tied up in renegotiating the available space for their tents at Light's Hope; Ironhand had been embroiled in a public dispute involving accusations of misconduct against one of the Brigade's  warlocks. Farion avoided it all as much as possible, content to let the officers handle their half of the business. He was only a captain. He had no desire for more.

When it came to restocking, the night elf knew that he was fortunate. The warriors were a straightforward bunch; they didn't have anything particularly exotic to worry about, with no need to barter for magical candles or powders for crafting spells. They required two bundles of ammunition, a market's worth of whetstones and potions, a few alchemical ﬂasks, and endless repairs. All Farion had to do to was pick up a few extra crates, and to cobble together a healthy bribe for  the local blacksmiths.

And to ﬁll the empty gap on his roster.

Tensions were running high throughout the Brigade. Several squabbles had already broken out. After one nasty clash earlier in the day left a rogue nursing a fractured wrist, Farion set the warriors free to roam the campgrounds and work off their pent-up energies. Hopefully they could manage not to get into too much trouble; Farion had  forked over a handful of his own gold for beer funds, and told them not to come back until they'd burned through it all.

In the kaldorei's opinion, they all could use a break.

He ducked into the warrior tent, swinging a satchel of whetstones loosely in his grip. The interior was dim. With the other warriors  gone for the day, the candles had been left unlit, and muzzy shadows blurred the lines of cots into one long smear.

Someone was waiting inside.

On the single stripped cot midway down the row, William Liasin sat with empty hands. The soft glow of his mace illuminated one side of his body, making it seem as if he had caught a handful of ﬁreﬂies and tethered them to his belt. He was alone.

Farion lowered the whetstones to the ground. "Liasin."

At the sound of his name, the paladin stirred. Without looking at Farion, he reached his ﬁngers down to touch Jenna's abandoned cot.  "Did she tell you before she left?"

"We all knew she was itching, Liasin." Though the paladin's voice was calm, Farion did not automatically put faith in it as proof of mind. "Just a matter of time."

Liasin did not argue the claim. His  hand drifted across the bare mattress; he did not move for several minutes, tracing  the contours of the canvas sacking. His breathing slowed. Farion could barely see the rise and fall of the man's shoulders, the heavy armor making jagged lines  in the gloom. Then an invisible balance shifted, and Liasin straightened up enough to look Farion in the eye.

"The Truesilver Arms are disbanding." Though the words were quiet, they fell like stones in the hush of the tent. "They lost too many members to the Silithids. Everyone's saying the Vics did it on purpose. No one can prove anything. That's the problem with all of this," he continued, speaking half to himself, the syllables terse. "No one can prove  _ anything.  _ So far, the closest we've come is a statement from the Vics saying they're as much victims as the rest of us -- that deserters from their guild lured the guards onto them, and that they were forced to retreat within the Temple. Which excuses their absence from the ﬁghting. It's all so  _ convenient. _ "

"Old news that the Vics play dirty." Looping his ﬁngers in the leather strap of the satchel, Farion hefted the whetstones again. He lugged them over to his cot, walking stiff-legged to keep the weight from banging against his shins.

After a moment, wary of the silence, he glanced over towards the paladin.

Liasin was watching him, a bitter line ﬂattening out the shape of his mouth. "Farion," he said softly. "If it hadn't been for Blackwind's pride, _we_ would have been the ones on the front. If we had been behind the Vics -- as we were expected -- it would have been _us_ the sentinels would have slaughtered."

"You saying the whole thing was a plan to get us dead?" Shoving the whetstones beneath his cot, Farion made a disgusted shrug. "No surprise there. The Vics hate us."

The paladin shook his head. "Worse than that. If the Vics set this up on purpose, then it means that the Truesilvers died for no good reason at all. The Brigade is still intact. If anything," a short laugh cracked out in punctuation, lacking any humor, "the ones most likely to stop us would be  _ ourselves.  _ The warriors are still unhappy, the paladins are unhappy. The hunters are angry that we left. I don't know how to give them what they want. I can't -- " he broke off there, shaking his head, struggling with the words. "I can't make things  _ better. _ "

Farion regarded him ﬂatly. "You're not supposed to, Liasin. No one can."

Despite the harsh words, the night elf was not entirely unsympathetic. Pragmatism was his law; he followed it as wholeheartedly as some would obey rules of commerce, or honor. He knelt beside his cot, ﬁshing a key from out of a beltpouch. The small storage chest he was looking for was still intact. No one had hired a rogue recently to pick it, unless the rogue had been polite enough to fasten it shut afterwards.

Several bottles were nestled inside the chest, packed for safekeeping with straw. The label of the ﬁrst one was dwarven, and hopefully palatable. Farion uncorked it gingerly and took a sniff. The contents were foul, but strong. It would suffice.

Grabbing the nearest mug that looked halfway clean, Farion poured a liberal dose of the spirits inside it. "Drink," he ordered the paladin when  it was full, thrusting the alcohol insistently towards him.

Liasin eyed the liquid, but obeyed. He grimaced at the ﬁrst  swallow, which Farion could understand; just one whiff of the stuff felt as if it had cauterized the insides of his nostrils.  He waited until the paladin lowered the mug, and then promptly topped it off.

Not wasting any time, Farion sat down on one of the cots facing the paladin. The cheap wood creaked beneath his  weight. "Listen," he began, remembering what he could of battleﬁeld lectures, of the same comforts he had told novice warriors in the past. "Jenna told me about the Monastery. You did the right thing. You spared those people a lot of suffering. Remember that. They asked to be put out of their misery. You gave then what they wanted -- "

"Jenna remembers it _wrong,_ Farion." As swift as a knife, Liasin  cut the night elf's platitudes short. "Not all of them asked  for death. Some of them were Horde. I couldn't understand them. Some  were unconscious -- I couldn't wake them. Some could only beg to be saved," he  bit out, passing the mug roughly between his hands, voice ﬁerce with unburied memory. "They wept when they saw  me coming. Some of them cursed me, tried to spit at me with bloody mouths. Some didn't have tongues left with which to speak. Did they still want life?" His gaze ﬂickered over to Farion, steady and dark. "Yes. I have no doubt that some of them did. Even broken, even _ruined,_ they still wanted to live."

A choice curse crossed Farion's mind.  _ This is less simple than I had hoped,  _ he thought grimly. Carefully, so as not to aggravate the paladin's nerves, he reached out and tilted the rim of Liasin's mug closer. He angled the bottle to ﬁll it a third time, watching the liquor gurgle in amber spurts. "And your faith? What about it, what does  _ it  _ say?"

"That's the worst part." Ignoring the temptation of more alcohol, Liasin dug the heel of a hand into his brow, rubbing hard. "As soon as the last one died -- as soon as they had gone quiet, and were no longer in pain -- my heart was at peace. I felt the Light then more strongly than  I ever have before, ever in my  _ life.  _ And that  _ frightens  _ me." His confession was shaky; in it lingered mixed currents of horror and awe. "It  felt  _ right,  _ Farion. It felt more right than anything else in the world. The Light forgives me." The mug trembled. Liasin's ﬁngers clenched around  the rim. He offered his last words to the ﬂoor. "I'm afraid of what it forgives me of."

When he was younger, Farion had known a stable keeper who had rescued a nightsaber cub from an abandoned den. Against the advice of the Sentinels, she had convinced herself that she could raise the creature without feeding it meat. It had grown older haphazardly, at war with its own nature, alternately snapping and cowering under instincts it could not understand.

That was the same thing he saw now in Liasin's troubled eyes: an animal's conﬂict, a wildness that could drive itself mad behind its own restrictions.

"Drink up," the night elf said heavily. He knew no other answer. "Drain your cup, and sleep."


	11. Chapter 10

"Sit still, boy, and I'll ﬁnish my tale."

The Scarlet Raven Tavern clattered with dishes. It was suppertime in Darkshire, and the gloom had driven many indoors early, worn down from the pressure of the unchanging sky. The lanterns of the Night Watch bobbed past the windows like a dozen spectral lights. The postboard by the door was overﬂowing with notices: requests for bodyguards, warnings of Horde sightings, and the habitual posts from guilds insulting one another in passing. Missing travelers topped the list. The Scarlet Raven was one of the few sources of comfort left in Darkshire, and traffic was frequent. It was equally quick to leave.

The detritus of other conversations ﬁltered into the air. "You say it's the Old God, but  _ I  _ think it's the wind -- "

"And those demons in Winterspring aren't making it any easier -- "

"Core hound snapped him in  _ half  _ and spat him out in roasted chunks, just like  _ that  _ \-- "

The speaker scowled behind his beard. He was already losing the tenuous attention of his audience of one: a young boy no older than ten years, with the sallow, sunless complexion that had overtaken Duskwood's inhabitants ever since the darkness had moved in.

He reached out, nudging one of the salt shakers where it had taken up position against the pepper mills. The epic battle had expanded until it had engulfed two plates and the man's cup, and had acquired an empty tankard from a passing waitress. Wisely, the other visitors to the tavern had chosen to sit elsewhere.

"But the murlocs, see, they had, ah..." The man's hand searched on the table before scooping up a fork and positioning it by the salt shaker. "Dragons, that's right.  _ Dragons.  _ Giant red ones. Very ﬁerce."

"How could they ride dragons?" the boy interrupted, squirming on his chair.

"Ah -- they were very big murlocs." The man cleared his throat. "Now, the murloc king was a strong fellow, and wise to the tricks of gnolls. So when he saw the sumptuous banquet laid out all unguarded,  _ he  _ said -- "

"Pol! So there you are!" Out of the crowd, a broad-hipped waitress appeared, wiping her hands on her apron as she pushed through the tables. Her hair was pinned up in a tight bun; the strands were sliding loose in wisps. "I apologize if he's been bothering you, sir -- now  _ where  _ are the clean spoons I've been asking for over the last hour?"

Granden inclined his head respectfully towards the woman. "It wasn't any harm, miss. The retelling of the Great Battle of Redridge." Over the boy's shoulder, he offered her a wink, reclaiming his teacup from the cutlery war.

She gave him a quick, harried smile in return. "Must have been a good one to get him to sit still for more than ﬁve ticks. You've a good hand with children. Have any of your own?"

Caught in the middle of raising his tea to his mouth, Granden lowered the cup. The bottom of it struck the table with a hard  _ click. _

"Once," he answered shortly. "We were north of Stratholme."

The woman averted her gaze. She pressed her lips together, chagrined. "I'm sorry."

A shadow passed over Granden's face; he banished it quickly, straightening up with a deep breath. "No. There's no need to apologize -- you didn't know."

"All the same." Transferring the used dishes to her tray with brisk efficiency, the woman scowled at her son until the boy scampered back to the kitchens. "For keeping Pol out of mischief, that's more than fair rate for the table. Stay for a while and have a fresh cup before you  go. Are you booked here for the night?"

"For now." The smell of steeped leaves rose into his nose as Granden ﬁnished off his cup, setting it on the edge of the table in acceptance of her offer. "I'm looking for the Parlor."

One eyebrow arched, the woman braced her tray into her waist. "The Oldmoon Funeral Parlor? They haven't been by in weeks. You've business with them?"

The cooler tone of voice was not missed. Granden smiled reassuringly, ﬁshing in a beltpouch until he extracted a roll of silk cloth. Laying it carefully on the table, he folded back the fabric to reveal a layer of waxed paper. Violet petals could be seen dimly through the protective covering, like trapped ﬁsh under ice. "Just with a memorial."

"Someone mention the Parlor?"

The question came from a pair of men at the next table over. The one on the far end was dark from the sun, with a scruff of black hair that looked like a military cut grown out at random. The other had his hair clipped back into a dirty blond tail. It was the blond who had spoken; he did so again, dipping his head down in an exaggerated bow. The motion caused his ponytail to spread like a broom over the boards of the table. "Mikel Canard at your service. If you're looking for Oldmoon, stranger, we might be able to point you where to go."

Granden gave them a curious glance, scanning the dirty yellow tabards that stretched over both their chests. "You don't look like Parlor."

Mikel leaned and spat beside the table. "Because we're with the Golden Guard, can't you tell?" Then he grinned, revealing teeth stained brown with tar. "Tell me, have  _ you  _ ever thought about seeking glory and honor with the Golden Guard?"

"You mean the Golden  _ Garud, _ " the waitress sniffed as she swung around and collected the empties from their table. "I've  _ seen  _ your recruitment posts."

Mikel spread his hands. "Master Patrick never was very good with his letters -- and he gets even worse with his love for a drink. But we  _ do  _ have a tabard. As you can see," he added, tugging at the insignia until the fabric tented, "we're very proud of it."

"Enough!" The matron wrinkled her nose. "We've got no young bloods for you to steal, and you can leave the paying ones alone." Finished with her warning, she paused in pouring hot water into Granden's cup. "It's a rabble's army, sir. Best take care of  yourself. The only glory that comes out of there is what leaves to join another guild.  _ Honor, _ " she snorted, bustling towards the kitchen. Her  words came drifting back. "More honor in a pack of goats that give rancid curd 'stead of milk."

Granden drew his teacup into his hands, curling his ﬁngers around the glow of heat that emanated from the ceramic shell. He leveled an assessing gaze towards the two men. "How can a member of the Golden Guard tell me where the Parlor oﬃcers are?"

"'Cause we're not." Flicking a cautious  glance towards the kitchens, Mikel leaned in closer until Granden could smell the reek of tobacco  on his breath. "Parlor here, tried and true. Let's just say it's easier for us to wear someone else's colors now and then -- and the Guard's old friends. They won't mind." He jammed a thumb towards a corner of the inn.

Between a pack of arguing merchants, Granden glimpsed a night elf lounging in a chair with one boot propped against the wall. "We're  here to pick up a side job, you see. Purpleskin over there needs a ride out, and we were lucky enough to net his fee for escort. If you'd like, we can add you to the list as well. Assuming you have gold?"

Outside the inn, the Night Watch patrols met, clustered together to exchange reports, and traded shifts. The clock over the ﬁreplace counted the progress of the evening into night. Granden checked the hour, and frowned. Though the Arthas' Tears had been treated with various oils to keep them from rotting, they would eventually reach a limit unless he chose to dry them. "I do. A little, but enough. When will you be heading out?"

Mikel made an elaborate shrug, leaning back on his bench. "We've been waiting for over a day already. You in a hurry?" He grinned again. "Ask   _him_ when he'll be ready."   
  


* * *

 

The moniker that Mikel had used for the night elf with was crude, but appropriate. Violet-toned, the night elf was a colorful contrast to the humans, dwarves, and occasional gnomes that crowded the inn. He was dressed in simple leathers, though the material had been  well-kept; there were a few nicks here and there that had not been stitched back together, but where repairs had been made, they were nearly invisible. To Granden's eye, such attention to detail could mean vanity, or skill. He did not know enough about the night elf to assume either.

The man's chair had been drawn sideways against the wall, so that he could sit in it and stare out the nearest window without turning his back to the room. A crossbow leaned against the far side of the chair. The wood of the weapon gleamed with fresh polish, and the string was not slack; like the man's armor, it had not been left to neglect. Yet, the evidence conﬂicted with the lazy way that the kaldorei sprawled in his seat, drumming his ﬁngers on his leg and calling out occasional jokes to the waitresses. He did not look like an individual who lived on the edge of his own nerves, where a moment of carelessness could lead to death.

As Granden approached, the night elf glanced up. He lifted a hand in supplication, palm empty and upturned. "Evening to you, sir," he said brightly. His voice was as smooth as the rest of his kind, but his diction was atypical; it sounded more like the patter Granden might expect to ﬁnd in Stormwind or Lakeshire than the gardens of Kalimdor. "Limfael Bitterroot, at your service. Help a hunter out who's fallen on tough times? Just a few gold to feed a poor hunter, who can't even feed his own companion?"

Baffled by the claim, Granden peered at the ground until he saw a dark-furred animal curled up below the chair, nearly invisible in the shadows. Its long tail ﬂicked erratically. All sinuous muscle, the cat sported a merciless set of fangs that curved over its lower jaw. Against the color of  its coat, the white markings on its shoulders shone clearly, delineating curves and circles.

Granden returned his attention instantly to Limfael. His answering smile was pleasant. Then he leaned forward. One hand went on the wall; the other braced itself on the back of the chair, until Granden loomed above the night elf in a blockade of muscle and armor.

"What kind of game are you playing?" he whispered. "I recognize those markings. That's no pet. You've got a druid under your command. Wouldn't the Cenarion Circle might have something to say about that?"

The night elf sighed, a long-suffering noise that he offered towards the ceiling. "Fugue.  _ Fugue. _ " He snapped his long ﬁngers once. "Don't tell me you're asleep  _ again. _ "

Granden straightened as the cat  stirred, sliding out from underneath the chair with its ears ﬂattened back. It changed as it moved. The dark pelt faded away into skin that was a pale enough blue that it was nearly white, colorless in the same way that moonlight forgot to adopt a hue. Fur melted into hair. The feline muzzle reshaped itself like water, fangs vanishing behind humanoid lips.

Still in motion, the druid slithered into the nearest chair and curled his legs underneath him. His feet were bare. His lamp-gold eyes were mildly reproachful; Granden wasn't sure at what. But  the druid remained silent, listlessly tilting his head with no indication of interest in the busy inn around him. His hands draped like wet dishrags over the chair's armrests. Like the rest of his order, the druid wore layers of intricately tooled leather, with patterns of leaves that overlapped one another like scales -- but unlike his companion, Fugue's garments were marred with dark splotches from mud and other substances that had not been cleaned off properly before the stains had set.

The emptiness in the druid's face was disturbingly familiar. Others might have mistaken it for a  form of mental control, or a mystical trance brought on from druidic arts. But  _ war  _ was the word that ﬂashed into Granden's mind as he looked into that  blankness; the certainty struck him hard in his gut.

Granden had seen people like that before. He knew the condition all too well. He could recognize the taste of nothingness as another man might know the creaking of stairs in a childhood home, how the boards would sigh and settle under the pressure of a careless footstep.

"Are you all right -- " he started to ask, and broke off when the druid winced. Lifting his hands slowly, as if each motion was painful, Fugue cupped his ﬁngers over his ears. Then, with no warning, the druid  slid back towards the ﬂoor, changing into a cat as he went. By the time he hit the ground, his feet had changed back to paws. He oozed beneath Limfael's chair once more in a dark coil, tucking himself back into the shadows as if he had never left.

Limfael had observed the entire exchange without lifting an eyebrow. When he noticed Granden's concerned glance, he shrugged. "Fugue  here doesn't like being regular much. Says it frightens him -- when he says much at all. Other people go exploring for excitement, or power, or glory. He's here because the Circle's hoping it'll ﬁx him along the way.  _ I'm  _ here because they pay me. You humans," he added, shaking his head. "So ready to believe that any kaldorei you see is a hunter. We  _ do  _ study other disciplines, you know."

"Ah," Granden replied steadily. "In other words, you're a rogue."

Caught, Limfael attempted a conciliatory shrug, stretching his hands in the air. "Guilty as charged. Is there anything I can help with you with on that?"

"Not directly." Uncertain now on how to press his case, sympathetic to Fugue's plight, Granden cleared his throat. "I'll be joining your escort on the road. I don't suppose I could convince you to leave early, could I?"

"I'll think about it. Ah, the wonders of charity have  been served!" Pilfering a bowl of stew from the tray of a passing waitress, Limfael plucked a stringy clump of meat from the broth and dangled it over the side of his chair. When all his  coaxing failed to tempt the druid's appetite, he pursed his lips and made a clucking noise, waving the meat like a toy.

Fugue promptly slunk under the back of the chair and disappeared upstairs.

Limfael sighed, scooping up his crossbow in one hand and steadying his bowl as he stood. "If you'll excuse me? I have to go make sure my pet cat doesn't  _ starve  _ to death."

"I understand if you have business to settle ﬁrst," Granden attempted. "It's just that -- "

Limfael ﬂashed him a grin -- cheerful, but tight around the edges. "We leave when I say we're ready. Really, human," he added, dry enough to border on insolent, "your kind should  _ try  _ to learn the value of patience someday."   
  


* * *

 

It wasn't hard for Limfael to slip away from the common room, though he could still feel the human's eyes watching him as  he retreated. One of the reasons he had positioned his chair near the stairs was to be able to extricate himself in case the inn became rowdy. On the whole, Limfael preferred to avoid trouble. If  it never had a chance to even look at him, so much the better.

He paused at the entrance to his room, inhaling slowly as he stilled his lungs and let his senses go on alert. While  there had been no disturbances so far during his time at the inn, the habit had saved him more than once in the past. When nothing seemed amiss, he nudged the door open with his knuckles and let it swing open fully before entering.

Inside, Fugue was at the window, which was a surprise; he was in elven form, which made Limfael reach instinctively for one of his daggers, skirting to the side of the door in case there was a nasty ambush waiting just beneath the beds.

"Rain." With a rustle of his sleeve, Fugue lifted his hand towards the windowpanes, as if he expected a storm to come pattering in directly through the glass. "Rain reminds us of regrowth and renewal. It comes like sorrow, but that sorrow is a promise."

Limfael approached the druid warily, glancing out the window on sheer principle. Outside, two heavily armored humans were beginning what looked like the start of what would be a laborious duel, testing one another's range with an enthusiasm that was certain to wane. Onlookers had cleared a circle around them both, watching with tepid interest.

Overhead, the skies were dark, but clear.

"Right," he announced. Reaching out, he placed his hands carefully on Fugue's shoulders, attempting to steer him gently  away. The last thing he needed was some sort of conjured burst of inclement weather indoors; Limfael had heard stories of druids before who'd been too easily excitable, and the furniture disasters that could result. "I'm sure  that's very poetic, but we've still got to decide when we're going. As nice as it has been to bilk our fare off the endless ﬂow of travelers, if we stay any longer in this room, the innkeeper will make us  _ buy  _ it, and  I don't think the Cenarion Circle will look too kindly on  _ that  _ particular bill. Right?"

At ﬁrst, Fugue resisted, ﬁghting to keep facing the window. Then his strength drained away. Without struggling, he allowed Limfael to  steer him towards the small table where the stew had been left. Only when he was being urged into a chair -- a spoon forced into his ﬁngers, which barely gripped the metal -- did the druid ﬁnally speak again. He tilted his head to look up at the taller kaldorei; his hair spread in an unruly tangle over his eyes, nearly masking the awareness that glimmered in them. "Tomorrow."

Limfael froze, puzzling over the word. "What," he suggested helplessly, "you're  _ ﬁnally  _ ready for us to go?"

The moment of lucidity passed. Fugue closed his hand, scraping the spoon in a rough arc across the table as the silverware tangled in his ﬁngers. "The sky," he mumbled. "The light."   
  


* * *

 

Sticking to the boundaries of a road had never been high on Jenna's  list of priorities. She liked to claim that it was a matter of common sense. Even though the regular passage of traffic tended to scare away most wild animals, there was always the chance that  some mischief might seek to take advantage of predictable travelers, and lie in wait. Though it was easier to track a horse trampling across blighted grass -- and kinder on any steed to cross packed terrain -- Jenna argued that Flea beneﬁted from the additional exercise. Wandering was not only healthy, but strategically sound.

In reality, however, Jenna really just hated being conﬁned.

The road through the Plaguelands was relatively straightforward, cutting south from Light's Hope and running doggedly west until it passed Andorhal and intersected with the Bulwark. Jenna followed it only as a guideline, swerving north and south of the trail at whim. Her whistled tunes brought no bandit leaping out to assault her. Canny enough to avoid the Scarlet camps, all she bothered to keep watch for was the infected wildlife that prowled the woods, their patchy fur rotting away from pocked, oozing hides.

The ruined ﬁelds blurred together, running seamlessly from day to day. Eventually, realizing that she must have  overshot Andorhal, Jenna slowed to a halt. She had ridden with the assumption that she would eventually swerve close enough to the ruined city to remember the right place to sneak through. In her arrogance, she  had neglected to check her map. Unfolding the battered parchment from her saddlebags was little help; without any idea of where she was, there was no way of guessing where she should go.

"Hound's spit," she muttered, nudging Flea with a knee to turn her.

The mare snorted and stayed put, lowering her head to lip at the withered grass.

Jenna slid to the ground, ﬂicking the reins over the mare's saddle.  True to form, the horse simply continued to snuffle at the turf, exhibiting no signs of wanting to bolt. Rolling her eyes, Jenna adjusted her swords to make certain they were in easy reach, and approached the ﬁeld, hoping to regain her bearings by sight -- or at least ﬁnd some  cover until the next morning.

The rows before her had been cleared. The swarm of undead she was expecting to see had been markedly thinned. The remains of a fence wandered along the ﬁeld's perimeter and trailed towards the crumbling shapes of a cottage and barn; a lone man leaned  against one of the posts, taking drinks from a waterskin. A massive greataxe lounged beside him, along with a supply pack. The metal was smeared dark with ichor. Its owner was unkempt. Though he was human, and  did not appear much older than Jenna, she could not say she had ever met him before. His armor was plate, but piecemeal, and his dark hair lay in dull hanks from a lack of washing. His beard was patchy and scraggled. She had enough experience to recognize  the ﬁrepit shave: performed without lather or mirror, but with a very sharp blade at hand.

"Don't go into the barn," he called out as she started towards it. His consonants were long and lazy. "They'll trap you in there. Only place worse is the house. Don't go in there."

Jenna turned on her heel. The words themselves weren't what stopped her. It was the manner in which they were delivered -- uninterested, completely lacking any concern despite the advice. Bored from the featureless trip, her curiosity began to warm. She rebalanced her weight, considering the stranger. "But the shelter it could provide -- "

"Is full of ghouls and skeletons. Make your own decision, but don't say I didn't warn you."

She hovered, intrigued, testing the ground beneath her with  small shifts of her weight. The man wore no tabard; there was no sash on his belt to show colors. The soil was damp enough to impede them both if either of them should suddenly lunge. Absently, she compensated for it by sinking her weight into her heels. "And what's  _ your  _ reason for  being here? Are you with a guild?"

He coughed once, scornfully. "Do I  _ look  _ like a guild dog to you? Don't insult me. I'm here on my own business."

"Doesn't look very important to me, then. Give me your water," she ordered, impulse taking precedence over the rest of her plight. "My horse is thirsty."

As she expected, he responded to the unspoken challenge, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Corking the waterskin, he slung it across the fence. The axe went into his hands.

"I don't have a padding sleeve," he warned, grinning. "You might lose something if you're careless."

"Good," she retorted. "I don't have one either."

Surprised, his eyes opened wide -- then he recovered with a smirk. He reached back over the fence, retrieving a leather axe-guard from his pack. This, he buckled into place upon the blade without fumbling, swapping the heavy weapon from palm to palm.

After he had completed his task, he did not bother to announce his formal acceptance of the duel. Jenna's only warning was the tensing of his arms as they let the axe drag behind him, the wickedly curved head hovering inches above the ground. It drifted higher as he gathered momentum, glistening with  the oily sheen of holy power; without pausing, he brought the weapon around in an opening swing that would have decapitated Jenna as easily as a straw doll if she hadn't dodged.

Preparing ahead of time gave her less of an edge than she'd  expected. Even though she had tested the ground, the man's greater  experience with the terrain made him more reckless in the charge. Her boots slid through damp soil, pressing it into mud. She parried his next blow with a hasty cross of her swords, couching her arms and shoulders  as she'd been taught against the raw impact.

Even braced, the blow hit her like a smithy hammer. Enchantments kept the metal from shattering, but her bones had only limited protection; the force was muffled by the swords' magic, which was the only reason her wrists did not splinter.

Then the impact of a holy Command slammed into her, and she rocked back, gasping as the energy raced through her nerves and set them humming.

"You're no plated priest," she spat when she had breath.

The grin he offered her was vicious. "Never met a  _ real  _ paladin before, I take it?"

She did not have the stamina to spare matching words with him. Her swords ﬂashed as she backpedaled, seeking to clear space between them both. Brute force alone could still injure a seasoned warrior. Though she did not strike to kill, neither did her enemy; both of them tested the other's defenses, leaving stinging reminders behind whenever a swing managed to get through. Nursing her hands against the numbness that chased along her muscles, Jenna switched up her tactics, taking advantage of her higher agility to score glancing blows against any exposed chainmail. Smashing her blades directly on  the plate would do nothing other than dull their edges; they were not enchanted with anything that might allow her to split the man's armor like a nut.

A garbled moan sliced through her concentration; the noise drove a chill down her spine.  In the heat of combat, she had forgotten what manner of ﬁeld she was ﬁghting on. Between swipes at the paladin, she risked a glance behind her, only to see the worst.

A clump of ghouls shambled across the ﬁeld behind her. Another few steps, and she might have caught their attention.

Seeing that she was trapped, the paladin grinned. His lips shaped words too quietly for her to hear. In obedience to his  prayer, brilliant light snaked across the ground, spreading like cracks in a vase to reveal golden lava beneath. Each passing second raked pain through her body; the glow of holy ground simmered around her, searing her with its fury.

Hissing, she danced backwards, as far as she could dare. He did not follow.

Made wary of the dangers around her, Jenna  circled back and forth at the perimeter of the consecrated soil. It was sheer chance that inspired her, dredged from a memory of the last time she had sparred with Liasin. Working swiftly, she snatched one of the scrap dirks from her belt; this, she ﬂung overhand towards the nearest ghoul, not caring if it actually struck its target. The missile spun, going wide -- but its arc had  the desired result.

One ghoul snapped its head around  towards her. She parried its claws as it dove wildly towards her, twisting her sword and stepping into its reach to try and entangle it. Out  of the corner of her eye, she saw the glow of holy ground continuing to seethe, guarding the paladin from her assault. Without ﬂinching, she grabbed at the ghoul's decaying shoulder, whirling in place and hurling the creature forward.

It recovered quickly, bunching its rotting  muscles like a cat. Once more, it began to scramble for her -- then the glow of the consecration stung it, far more painfully than Jenna's efforts. It turned upon Arithor with a screech.

Undeterred, the paladin shifted to address the new threat. He swapped the axe in his hands, doggedly focusing on the ghoul instead of Jenna.

One of his hands detached from the weapon's hilt and began to form a familiar gesture, ﬁngers crooked up with the wrist stiff.

She lashed out with  her ﬁst quickly, slamming the heel of her hand  into his jaw. As he reeled, she followed through on the attack with a smooth twist of her weight, kneeing him in the gut  and following him down to pin him when he crashed to the ground. Her blades ﬂashed like a whirlwind. The ghoul gurgled as she dispatched it, spasming its way into ﬁnal oblivion. Then she aimed her swords at the paladin's throat.

"Do you yield?" she roared, grimly dreading if he would call upon the Light in a trick to even the odds.

But he only struggled once, testing her grip before slumping back against the ground. Belatedly, his chin jerked in a nod. "You're lucky I wasn't able to turn it," he panted.

She released him with no little amount of smugness, rolling back on her heels in a smooth extension of muscle. The ground squelched as she unfolded herself to her feet. Automatically, she wiped her blades upon the nearest patch of grass before sheathing them. To her temporary adversary, she offered a hand. "You're not the ﬁrst paladin I've dueled before," she admitted. "Though you're not exactly like the rest. You're -- "

He gave her a skeptical look. "Liberated?"

" _ Dirty, _ " she countered. "Crazy. Living out in a ﬁeld like a homeless beggar."

He arched his eyebrows, but couldn't argue against it. "Liberated," he repeated with a shrug. Reaching out, he took her grip ﬁrmly. The weight of his armor made her brace her heels as he levered himself up. Unlike other paladins, he had not compromised his plate for lighter forms of protection. Switching to mail had given Jenna an edge in mobility -- but she doubted he would accept that recommendation.

Once up, the man gathered his axe and headed over to the fence, where he leaned the weapon at rest. He tossed the waterskin towards her; reﬂexively, she reached up and caught it, the plump contents sloshing against her wrist. "Here," he announced. "Your prize. Better than looting it off my corpse, I suppose."

She grinned, uncorking the end and taking a swallow. The ﬁrst mouthful made her choke in surprise. The taste of the liquid was sweet, almost cloyingly so, and ﬁzzed against the roof of her mouth.  _ Morning Glory,  _ she recognized -- a favorite of the priests. Jenna had always  enjoyed nicking a few bottles from their reserves.

Without warning, she tossed the waterskin back; he almost fumbled the catch, taken off guard by her generosity. "Don't need to feed  _ that  _ nonsense to my horse," she claimed grandly. "Not unless she starts dropping ice bolts and ﬁreballs instead of dung."

"It'd contribute more to a battleﬁeld than your sword," he accused, not missing a beat.

"Fine words for someone who  _ lost. _ " Comfortable now with the measure that she had taken of him -- both in and out of combat -- Jenna peeled off her gloves, wiping a drying clot of dirt  off the leather. Cool air licked trails between her ﬁngers. "Jenna All-Bright," she declared. "Warrior of enough years to know which end of a weapon is the pointy bit. You?"

It might have been her imagination, but he seemed to hesitate, deterred by her forthrightness. She almost wondered what he had gone through to make him cautious of friendly travelers -- but she didn't need to guess. Sometimes, the generosity of strangers only signaled an attack. "Arithor. Just Arithor's ﬁne. Are you looking for someone, or here to hone your skills?"

"Neither -- I'm supposed to be headed for Chillwind. I overshot Andorhol, and need my bearings."

"Then take the road back east. This is Felstone." Hanging his waterskin back over the fence, Arithor squinted up at the sky. Cloud cover made everything dark to Jenna's eyes, but the paladin seemed to have enough experience to analyze the hour after only a moment.  "It'll be night soon. At this rate, you'll be blundering straight into the undead. If you want to do anything other than give them an easy meal, I recommend waiting until the morning."

"Is that an insult?" she protested, genuinely affronted. "I've fought Scourge on my own before!"

But the doubt he turned upon her was honest. " _How?_ Without healing?" "That's what poultices are for. Any warrior who leaves camp without supplies deserves what they get. We _can_ survive without the Light, you know."

Arithor's expression was equal parts baffled and scornful. His dark eyes swept up and down her frame repeatedly; his head made small shakes of confusion, as if she had just told him that the sky was  green and the grass was blue. Astonishment robbed him of his voice. When he ﬁnally managed to do more than open and close his mouth, his next question was ﬂat with disbelief. "Why would you  _ want  _ to?"

"The Light's not all that good." Mentally, she thanked her decision to avoid joining the Church; her words would border on heresy otherwise. "Being a paladin is the  _ worst  _ thing I know for a friend of mine."

Arithor's response was instant. "Then you have a terrible friend."   
  


* * *

 

The paladin's camp was not far from the ﬁeld. Jenna had expected  as much; from her own traveling experiences, she knew how hard it was to defend personal territory. Any useful vantage point attracted other adventurers to camp out as well, and those types of matches normally came down to who was  the most willing to bend the rules of civil behavior in exchange for gaining a better spot to pitch their tents. Jenna had not lost supplies to poachers in months -- the Brigade usually teamed up with one another, and no thief in  her knowledge had  _ wanted  _ to steal Flea -- but even she preferred to keep her supplies in view of whatever hunting ground she was preparing to tackle.

Arithor's claim was modest, consisting of a small clearing shaded by one of the larger trees whose branches had not yet been stripped bare by fungus. His tent was low to the  ground, barely high enough to crawl into. The underbrush that clogged the area was thick enough to provide some shelter from the wind, as well as privacy; the bushes were tangled and dry, but their ratty leaves would also alert Jenna to any intruders.

Hefting his supply bags  down from the nook of the tree, Arithor began the laborious process of refreshing the camp for the evening.  Trusting Flea not to do something stupid in the night like try to bash Jenna's head in with dislodged foliage, Jenna ﬂipped the  reins over the nearest branch.

"No horse?" she asked him, surprised.

 

Arithor snorted, shaking his head. "Even holy steeds can throw a shoe. He's stabled at Chillwind for now." Briskly, he knelt and uncovered the ﬁrepit, yanking the metal lid away from the ashes. A few coals remained warm enough to coax to life. These, he nursed with twigs and fresh air, until embers burrowed through the leaves and began to ﬂower.

She took a seat awkwardly across from him, uncertain what to do. If it was a Brigade camp, she would already have her orders: either she would be expected to scout the nearby area for threats, or to rest early  in anticipation of second watch. As a guest to Arithor's camp, she owed at least one of the two courtesies.

But Arithor did not ask for help. After a cursory glance around the clearing, he unslung his greataxe, setting it in easy reach in case of a sudden attack. He  laid his supplies out methodically, extracting a wooden ration box from his packs. Sliding back the cover, he unwrapped ﬂat crackers that had been packed in waxed paper to repel the damp; to Jenna's stomach, they looked as appetizing as rocks. Two wafers went beside himself ﬁrst. The next two pieces were laid upon the ﬁrepit lid, which was pushed roughly towards her, the metal scraping over raw soil. The waterskin came out after that, set between them.

_ Bread and water,  _ she thought wryly as she reached out to accept the paltry meal. The sparseness might have been an insult -- except that Arithor had provided it freely, and his own sustenance consisted of the same exact thing.

Arithor ate like a man who did not relish his food. Each bite was broken off without haste; each bite was thoroughly chewed, washed down by swallows of dew. Even though Jenna did not savor most  travel rations, she still knew how to grimace over the taste of them. Arithor could have been putting paper in his mouth for his utter lack of reaction.

When he was ﬁnished, he picked up the small crumbs that had been shed, and swallowed those as well. Only when there was no scrap of food left did he ﬁnally stand, packing away his supplies and leaving her with the waterskin.

"You may wish to stay at camp tonight," he informed her softly, buckling tight the laces of his bracers with care. "I've a killing mood on me."

Jenna stared. Her poise came back to her with an effort. "Not much of a holy paladin, are you?" The laugh she made felt hollow. "With such a taste for slaughter, you should have been a warrior -- not some hollow suit of armor on his knees somewhere, reeking of altar incense."

Arithor paused in gathering up his  axe, ﬁngers curling around the haft of the weapon. "On the contrary. The meditations of the Order help keep my temper in check. I ﬁnd they're rather useful for self-control."

"Warriors have codes of discipline as well. Any one of them would suit your needs."

"Any one of them was not there when I needed it. If nothing  else, I am loyal to what provided for me when I was too weak to do it myself." Turning away from the ring of ﬁrelight, Arithor made a loose practice swing with his axe. The wicked curves of the double-bladed head made only a whisper of displaced air. "I may not be as lethal in combat as a warrior, and I am vulnerable in other ways, but at least I can take care of my own wounds now. I would not bother another to heal me."

"Nothing a few bandages and a hearty meal can't ﬁx," she joked. "Have you ever heard of potions?"

"That's the problem with you warriors," he mocked back. "No sense of appreciation for the ﬁner mysteries in life. If you want," he added, "you can join me, but I can't promise for your safety."

Impulse nearly drove Jenna  to answer yes. Curiosity held  her in check. To allow her to stay in his camp unobserved implied a great deal of trust on Arithor's part -- and trust, she imagined, was not a part of his usual repertoire.

Arrogance, on the other hand, was.

"I'll take ﬁrst watch here," she said. "So we can  keep the ﬁre going." 

He inclined his head. "Have it your way."

 

* * *

 

The road through Duskwood was straightforward, almost brutally so -- as if it sought to make up for the twisting hills and forests that made up the bulk of the landscape. Straying off the path could be lethal in the perpetual gloom; travelers could lose themselves among the tangled brambles, only to fall prey to spiders, maddened wolves, or the murderous worgen that slunk among the abandoned farmsteads, claiming land left behind by those who had ﬂed to Darkshire in hopes of saving their lives.

Mikel's stolid partner -- the black-haired man who had grunted his name out as  _ Stefan  _ \-- was an old hand with the cart, coaxing the draft horses to line up in their harnesses for the trip. Transportation consisted  of a supply wagon that had seen better days, and which still smelled like pig. Stains from unknown substances made diseased blotches on the wooden planks; in deference to their passengers,  Mikel had spread a canvas liner across the bottom, but the fabric barely covered more than half the space. Granden was forced to participate in a silent war with his fellow passengers over who could claim which part, performed  by the shuffling of limbs and feet and eyes only barely apologetic.

Tethered to the back of the wagon, Granden's horse plodded obediently along, its saddlebags laced full with  supplies. He hadn't bothered to rent a room to store the excess; his funds were already lower than he would have liked, though the herbs he had gathered had sold  well to the guilds at Light's Hope. Limfael's nightsaber was in similar condition, burdened with a staff hung from its side and a pair of swords on the other.

Between the two night elves, it seemed as if there was only one mount to spare -- though Granden did not doubt that Fugue  preferred the use of his own paws. The druid himself remained in feline shape. He did not seek to interact with Granden, or anyone else in the cart. Most of his time was spent drowsing, punctuated by languid yawns. As they stopped to rest the horses and stretch their legs, the druid slipped down and melted into the forest as if he had already become a part of it, despite his foreign origins.

Granden, hefting himself down from the back of the wagon, paused to watch the druid vanish. "So, does he think he's actually a cat now?"

Sparing a glance towards the woods, Limfael shook his head. "I don't catch him chasing mice or playing with brightly colored bits of string, if that's what you're asking. I think he does it just so he doesn't have to _talk_ to anyone. _And_ because it's easier for him to hide. Half my time's spent trying to ﬁgure out where he's escaped to next." Swinging his arms in wide circles, the night elf made an exaggerated roll of his shoulders to loosen them. "I hope he remembers to come back. It'd be just _rodne'kal_ if I had to hunt him down in a place like this."

But the night elf's concerns were unnecessary. Just as Stefan clambered back onto the driver's bench, Fugue reappeared, springing back onto the wagon as if he'd never left. He curled up against a sack of potatoes, ﬂicking his tail over his nose like a veil, and resumed his nap.

Stefan snapped the reins. The horses lurched forward once more, bumping Granden against the sides of the cart. The wagon continued to trundle westwards, following the long road with only brief interruptions to rest.

At some point, Stefan began to sing.

His enthusiasm did not make up for the complete lack of melody. The man sung with the lustiness and pitch of a drunkard, combining words with random notes that spun out of any semblance of control. Across from Granden, Fugue bunched himself into a tighter ball, pressing his head into the potato sack.

"You know," Granden remarked thoughtfully as Stefan ﬁnished one song and launched into another, "I think I know that tune. But I didn't know it was supposed to sound like..."

"Like two harpies in heat," Limfael supplied helpfully when Granden's powers of description failed him. The night elf had gone into a protective crouch, cupping his palms over his long ears. Beside him, Fugue shuddered. "Two very  _ frustrated  _ harpies."

From his spot near the front of the wagon, Mikel let  loose a guffaw at their plight. "Stefen sings so he doesn't fall  asleep on the road. Of course, none of us can get any sleep either. 'Sides," he added, the cheeriness of his voice nearly obscured by the ruckus, "it helps scare the wolves off, right?"

It was nightfall before peace blessed them with its presence. As a small mercy, Stefan's voice had dwindled along with the sun, so that he simply hummed a broken tune that soared up and down, droning like a pipe organ that had been left underwater until its innards had found new ways to rot. Granden had been too well-disciplined  to pray to the Light for the gift of temporary deafness, but he had caught himself thinking wistfully of its boundless capacity for mercy.

At least, he thought ruefully, Mikel had been right about one thing. The local wildlife had given them a wide berth.

Once they had pulled safely off the road to make camp for the evening, Mikel and Stefan went into action, yanking off their ﬁlthy yellow tabards and stuffing them deep into a burlap sack. The tack on the horses were similarly stripped, exchanged for leather cords that were twined purple and black. Within minutes, there was no visible evidence of the Golden Guard; every scrap of guild insignia or  color had been replaced by that of the Oldmoon Parlor, with its familiar moon and roof crest turned out in open display.

Granden watched the switch with some bemusement. "Even as temporary members of the Guard, I thought you were supposed to be proud of your tabard," he observed dryly. "Won't anyone notice the switch?"

Stefan gurgled a laugh. Mikel offered a saucy wink as he pulled a fresh tabard over his head. "We've traveled with the Guard on occasion. If anyone remembers, we'll just claim we were visiting friends for a while. There's an advantage to being loose with your loyalties, after all." Smoothing his tabard down and adjusting his belt to keep it in place, Mikel's gaze turned shrewd. "That should be good enough to satisfy any questions, unless someone should  _ want  _ to cause trouble."

Spreading his hands in surrender, Granden allowed a wry smile to color his face. "Don't worry. I'm not a grand paladin. I won't sell you out, though I'm afraid I can't lie for you either."

The answer caused Mikel to grin, exposing his stained teeth to the air. "Good thing I'm not asking you to, then. This won't be the ﬁrst time the Parlor's had to do business on the side. Jared pays us to work -- not to die for him. We're wise enough to be discreet."

"By using the Guard as your cover?"

Mikel shrugged. "What better refuge than something even worse than what you are? No one looks twice at beggars. They look even less at the Guard."

Unable to argue with that logic -- as cynical as it was -- Granden acknowledged his retreat with a shake of his head. He dropped his hands, unwilling to provoke the topic further. "I have no intention of interfering with whatever you have planned," he emphasized. "My business is simple. I need to lay ﬂowers on a grave that was buried by your guild. How quickly will I be able to get that done?"

Mikel's thick ﬁngers dug a wad of tobacco out  of a pouch. The man settled down on a bulge of tree roots, tipping out a pipe and repacking it lazily. "Depends. Normally, all it takes is checking  the records, seeing where your body's been stored on the map. Thing is, the records are getting reviewed. Big time for us." Jamming the mouthpiece of the pipe between his teeth, he struck a match, cupping it against his palm. Smoke curled up in pale undulations through his ﬁngers. "Y'see, the Vics have us in a bind. Every coﬃn that gets passed through, they have someone checking. It's to make sure we're staying  _ legal.  _ And  _ then  _ \-- as if that's not bad enough -- they make us do regular  _ audits.  _ I tell you, it's just not the same anymore, being an undertaker." The pipe went in and out of his mouth, clicking against his teeth. "So if we want access to the burial maps, we've got to wait until the Vics are satisﬁed ﬁrst. Could take a while."

The tangle of restrictions caused Granden to frown. "I thought you were both separate guilds," he said slowly. "Why should it matter what they want?"

Tossing the spent match onto the ﬁrepit, Mikel leaned back against the tree. Though the pipe tobacco was pungent, reeking of a woody spice, the fumes that it gave off were curiously neutral. "Because it  _ does.  _ It's a long story why we're even stuck like this." His gaze jerked to the side; Granden followed it, only to discover the luminous eyes of a night elf ﬁxed upon them. Limfael had been watching the exchange with an uncharacteristic silence. Mikel cleared his throat. "Not  a tale to be had on the road, at least. And not something any paladin should be interested in, not one bloody bit. Take my advice, stranger. Don't get involved in other people's dilemmas. They're not worth it."

"That," Granden said quietly, "shouldn't be a problem for me."


	12. Chapter 11

The Parlor pulled off the road early the next day. Afternoon still ruled the clock, though visibility in Duskwood remained as murky as  ever. Half of the lanterns they passed were missing their candles, metal casings swinging open in the breeze. Either the Night Watch had not come by to restock them, or they had simply given up entirely on lighting the poles, thwarted by desperate travelers and greedy rogues.

The darkness was not entirely unbroken. Here and there, the dim glow  of farmhouse windows peeped through the gloom, struggling against the constant shadows. Stubbornness was all that kept the last few families defying the darkness that crippled the land, even knowing how the warmth would attract monsters to their very doorsteps.

Stefan's wagon scraped its wheels as the horses plodded onto unpaved ground, slowing to a halt in a small clearing  that had been folded between a hill and a handful of trees. A small graveyard sat forlornly nearby. Its fence was barely big enough to ﬁt the four headstones that were crammed within; it had been waging, and losing, a private war with its weeds.

"Here we are," Mikel announced as Stefan swung down and began to ﬁddle with the harnesses of the horses. "You've got three hours before we've got to leave for the next safe campsite. Y'know what you want to do?"

Curious, Granden turned just in time to catch sight of Limfael's conﬁdent nod. "Fugue and I will be back in  plenty of time. Don't get any bright ideas about leaving us stranded."

"Make us late at your own peril," Mikel replied, his grin rakish as he untucked his pipe from its lodgings. Smacking his lips in satisfaction, the man propped up his feet on the driving bench, and began to root through his pouches for tobacco.

Left without any insight into their delay, Granden was forced to look towards the night elves for enlightenment. Fugue had already escaped the wagon, vaulting the side with an easy spring of his muscles and vanishing into the forest. Limfael was slower to depart; the rogue clambered down stiffly from the back of the cart, stretching his limbs with a grimace as he reintroduced blood to his extremities.

Whatever expression of polite confusion Granden wore caused Limfael to laugh. The night elf tossed his head; the violet ponytail of his hair jerked with the motion, dusting his shoulders. "Ever see a Great Tree before, human? Come on."

The invitation was casual. The ascent was not. Together, Granden and Limfael worked their way laboriously up the hill.  Though the path started off in a shallow slope, it soon devolved into sharp twists, swinging sharply to the west before reversing in a hairpin curve that left Granden almost stumbling off the side. Withered bushes clustered together to block the view. Trees clung tenaciously to the soil, leaning over steep drops that could shatter bones of any traveler unlucky enough to slip.

Garrulous without Stefan's singing to drown him out, Limfael kept up a steady rate of chatter that was interrupted by occasional grunts as the night elf pulled himself over the steep terrain. "This one won't be as impressive as the World Tree," he announced, balancing on a root that snaked alongside the path. "But very few things are. I like the grove in Feralas much better. Much more -- urf -- _scenic_ than this  wretched place. My pardons if this is your favorite spot for a summer home, by the way."

Granden chuckled, his mouth dry from a pant. "Any of your elven Trees would be new to me, I'm afraid. I wasn't at Hyjal for the war. All I've had are stories."

Limfael threw him an assessing glance as the night elf padded along the root, his boots lining up heel-to-toe like a cat. "Wise decision. I wasn't there either. It's better that way, really it is." Reaching  the end of the root, Limfael stepped off and landed on the path with a soft crunch of dirt. "This way, I can remember Nordrassil as forever whole. Watching it become scarred -- overrun by undead and demons -- would have been like gouging out my mother's eyes and setting maggots in what remained to rot."

The hill rose higher and higher, arching towards the sky, until the path turned suddenly and cut into the side of the mound. The narrow gap it sliced out was marked by an ornate archway. A pair of globe-lights ﬂanked the path, overﬂowing with an azure glow the color of moonlight on water. The wood and stones of the marker had been carved with grooves that curled around the contours, swirls that followed  the natural grain rather than force themselves into the materials.

 _Kaldorei work_ , Granden recognized, pausing out of respect to the craftsmanship. To the absent builders, he offered a nod.

Limfael had no such reverence. Inured to the beauty of the woodwork, the rogue strode beneath the arch without looking up. On the other side, he waited, cocking his head towards Granden until the paladin began to walk once more.

As a small mercy, the path ﬂattened itself out closer to the archway, giving Granden's legs a momentary reprieve. Once he and Limfael had passed through, however, the passage twisted even further. The rocky hills crept closer together, until it seemed they would fuse together at any moment and leave the two travelers at an impasse. Then cobblestones replaced dirt, only to descend as steeply as it had risen.

Only when the grove ﬁnally revealed itself did they halt to catch their breath. Granden's knees were throbbing; he squinted  his eyes against the pain, noting with some relief that Limfael seemed equally winded. Below them, the trees stretched out in a haze of fragrant mist. The valley that cupped them stretched out like the den of a landborn beast that yearned for the sky, fettered by the mound that rose from the heart of Darkshire with a blister's grace.

Even standing on the very edge of the grove, the air felt heavy on Granden's face, as if stormclouds were gathering on the horizon and turning the sky sweet with moisture. The stone path ran directly into the heart of the trees, aimed towards a  massive shadow that reached towards the sky, spreading its branches in hopes of sunlight that would never reach Darkshire's soil. When Granden focused on the murky light, he thought he could glimpse a massive vortex shining at the center of the grove: a portal, pulsing with energies that shone in seafoam green and blue, beating with the orange tremors of a ﬁre's heart.

Small camps of travelers had set up  tents just below the slope of the path, where the terrain bubbled into smaller hills that could provide  a safe vantage point of the land. Guild banners stretched across supply crates. The Alliance had claimed the western half of the ledges, grouped together in a crude commonality. The Horde  were in the minority, but they had their representatives too, stationed east with the road like a wall between the two factions.

The collection of tents was modest, meant for only a few travelers rather than an entire guild. The adventurers who were visible were not alone: imps scrambled beside them, hissing insults at one another in demonic tongues. Succubi stroked crimson-painted nails down their own thighs and giggled to one another, stamping their hooves with petulant frowns whenever they were ignored. Snuffling through the grasses lurked the squat bodies of felhounds, their toothy maws snapping at the air whenever they caught a scent.

"Warlocks," Granden remarked. He studied the ﬁgures with curiosity, looking for faces hidden behind fel robes. Only belatedly did he  realize that it might have seemed odd to have not sneered when he had spoken.

But Limfael didn't question the lack of the paladin's antagonism. Instead, the night elf merely shrugged, jaded beyond complaint. "Aye. Camped anywhere you can ﬁnd a Tree. I'd like to take you closer, but it's dangerous to approach the portal." Stepping oﬀ the path, the night elf motioned for Granden to follow as he explained. "Powerful green dragons have been coming out -- but twisted, diseased, attacking everyone who approaches. There's something going wrong inside the Dream, and whatever it is has poisoned them. These warlocks are here to take advantage of their madness, and alert their guilds to kill them rather than ﬁnd a cure."

Granden lowered himself gingerly to the ground, feeling an ache grip his left knee like a vise. "Was it the Dream that affected your companion's health?"

Limfael shook his head. "Fugue came out of the Hyjal War like that. At least, that's my understanding. They woke him up too early, maybe. The Circle doesn't share its secrets with a lowly rogue like myself. In the last message I received, they suggested taking him around to the little Trees, and seeing if that would help." Wagging a long ﬁnger dismissively, Limfael snorted, kicking out his heels on the ground in a lanky sprawl. "Feralas did nothing. Ashenvale was a _waste_. Now we get to wait, and see if this one does the trick, or if our druid's just as bad as before."

* * *

 

It was long after the end of ﬁrst watch by the time that Arithor returned. Night insects had sung themselves  to exhaustion; the occasional noises of other adventurers had faded away as even the most stalwart ﬁghter chose sleep over the undead. The ﬁre had simmered low, drenching the ground in uneasy shadows, dressing the trees in butchered reds.

As Jenna waited, she had unsheathed her swords, laying them in parallel beside her so that she could study the grime that had accumulated over the course of her duel. Killing the ghoul had  left a pungent stain on one of her blades. A thorough cleaning would be required if she didn't want the metal to pit; normally, she would have simply turned the weapon over to a guild blacksmith for repairs, and never thought  twice about the labor. Now she had only herself.

 _No use regretting your decision now_ , she had ordered herself resolutely, and bent to the task.

As the night had lengthened, she had dozed - rebelliously, in  case Arithor planned to simply abandon her to the elements. Inattention risked an attack, but Jenna had ﬁgured that the toll on the paladin's sense of guilt would have been worth an unfortunate demise. If not his guilt, then his pride.

But he showed himself eventually, the arcanite greataxe gripped clumsily in both hands. Exhaustion caused him to carry the weapon like a mere object - a woodsman's tool, rather than a ﬁghter's. Without offering any apology for his delay, he ﬂopped onto the  ground across from her, staring dully at the ﬁre before he ﬁnally dredged up the energy to reach for the waterskin.

Seeing his sorry condition, Jenna almost wished something had attacked the camp, just so she could needle him for tardiness. "Still alive?" she asked instead, pushing the waterskin towards his hand.

The challenge revived some humor in Arithor's face. He smiled at the ﬁre. "For now."

" _Barely_. What, did it take all that time for you to kill one? Maybe you should have had me go with you after all."

Arithor stiffened at the teasing. "This is _my_ task," he snapped, the corners of his mouth going tight as a twisted bow. "I could be laughable for my dedication, but at least I'm not making others come assist me."

Her lip curled. "I don't recall you trying to _force_ anything."

"I'm too tired to ﬁght with you." Cutting off the argument, the paladin rubbed his palm across his face, smearing a streak of dirt into his scalpline. The stain was a livid gash against his skin. "If I can't  keep myself alive, then it means it's time for me to die. If I can't save myself, I don't deserve salvation. The last thing I need is to worry about _you_. Of course it's hard being alone out there. But _life_ is hard. It's difficult enough handling my problems -- I don't need to be responsible for _yours_ as well."

Caught off guard by the cold force of the man's conviction, Jenna swallowed. Her mouth was dry. "And here I thought that all paladins were supposed to be saints, and help people."

" _Helping_ and _serving_ are two concepts that are frequently confused." Lifting the waterskin, Arithor squeezed a mouthful between his lips. A trickle dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, painting a line in the stubble that gleamed in the ﬁrelight. "The Light serves the Crusade's paladins too. So what does that prove? As long as you do what you believe is _right_ , then the Light alone will be your judge and arbiter. I think I get more done for the world out _here_ than inside a cloister. At least," he added snidely, "I'm not a guild _dog_ , dragged around by a master's leash."

"Neither am I," Jenna spat back. Her next words were subdued. "Not anymore."

On the ﬁre, a decaying log ﬁnally split, crumbling under its own weight. Embers had gnawed it hollow from the inside. All that was left was  a shell, glowing as it decayed.

"You remind me of my weapons tutor," she said eventually. The words slipped uneasily off her tongue, ﬂeeing like nervous  cattle from a pen. "He was a man who used to compose love letters while on the battleﬁeld. He would cut his way through  the ﬂesh of his enemies, and then when he would come back in from the ﬁeld - still stripping off pieces of his ﬁlthy armor - he would ask for a pen and begin to write. I never understood him. I don't understand _you_ either. And here I thought it was just Liasin who was mad."

She chose her words carelessly, but the reaction was puzzling. At the name, Arithor straightened up. The waterskin slumped forgotten by his leg. "Liasin?" he frowned. "Liasin, the healer?"

"You've heard of him?"

"Who hasn't? There's been gossip for _months_ about a paladin who was given a sword he won't even use. Instead, he's some cloth-lover who's trying to put us all back into Faol's age. Paladins should wear plate and remember their dignity." A snap punctuated Arithor's bitterness as he corked the waterskin, latching the cap back in place. "If we wanted to heal like priests, we should have stayed in the cloisters, not the sparring ﬁelds. Anyone who thinks we can compete is only deluding themselves."

The opportunity for a taunt was irresistible. "Are you saying you're incapable of beating a priest?"

"I'm saying that no one should _want_ to." Hooking the waterskin's neck between his ﬁngers, Arithor lobbed it in a shallow, underhanded arc towards his supply bags. "Just be yourself. Don't pretend towards anything else."

Jenna watched the leather sack hit the ground, spreading out slowly as the water inside settled. The whiff of sword oils crept into her nose, overriding the patina of sweat. Suddenly, she found herself missing the Brigade; the single ﬁre seemed small, petty in comparison to the clamor of a guild camp, even with all the inﬁghting between tents. Individual camps, it seemed, had their fair share of that too.

"He doesn't only think that paladins should heal," she said softly.

Arithor snorted. "Could have fooled me."

"I _know_ him." Her belts groaned as she leaned forward for emphasis, the numerous scabbards rubbing together. "I've known him almost all my _life_. It's not healing he cares about, it's _helping_ whatever's in trouble. When he was younger, he used to catch the wasps that would blunder into the church and carry them out. Sometimes, he'd do it with his bare hands."

Arithor's sneer snagged her eye. He started to unbuckle his bracers, picking out clumps of poxied grass from where they'd been caught during the ﬁghting. "And, what, the animals of the land never harmed him, he was such a bastion of goodness? Or -- better yet -- they banded together to save his life one day?"

"Don't be stupid. He got stung every single time! Wasps are ungrateful bastards." Feeling the point begin to slip away, Jenna squared her shoulders. She jabbed a ﬁnger against her boot. "But he kept doing it. He said, them stinging him was just like how _we_ ﬁght against things that frighten us, or that we don't understand. It didn't matter if they'd been injured or not. He'd stick his hand out anyway."

Buckles clattered as Arithor succeeded in freeing his left bracer, tugging the leather straps out of the rigid curves they had stiffened into. "The difference is that your paladin's trying to be benevolent. If a  giant suddenly appeared and whisked me up in its palm, I doubt _it_ would be attempting to save me."

"Don't act surprised, but I said the same thing to him. _I_ used to smother them in honey." Another log trembled and fell; Jenna reached out, taking one of the branches off the reserve pile and stripping it free of twigs. The bark tore fruitlessly at her skin, repulsed by callouses. "That's - that's the _problem_ with Liasin. He has no sense of proportion -- of what actually _matters_ in this world. None at all."

Leather squeaked. "I told you he was a terrible friend."

The comment surprised her; she hadn't expected him to remember her earlier reference, let alone make the connection. Still, the  casual dismissal bothered her. Arithor was as much a warmonger as she. They both knew it - just as they knew any sign of weakness would shift the ground between them.

"When I was little," she announced, "I had a favorite toy. It was a stuffed bear, all ratty and mangy. I liked to pretend I was a hunter, and it'd be my forever loyal pet. Naturally, some of the bullies in my village thought it was a great game to try and steal it. They caused trouble with _anyone_ smaller than them - they were taller, so it was easier to keep things out of reach. One day, one of them succeeded in taking mine."

"And?" Dropping his second bracer beside the ﬁrst, Arithor began to peel back his sleeves, exposing his skin to fresh air. "Did your parents come and take it back?"

"No." Waiting until Arithor glanced up and met her gaze, Jenna kept her eyes steady. "I caught up with the boy, and as he was holding it in the air triumphantly away from me, I punched him in the stomach. To start." When Arithor opened his mouth to speak, she continued on, overriding any protest. "They got a healer for his broken leg, my bear got put on a shelf inside the house, and I got sent to sparring practice. So the lesson here is: don't test me."

Arithor closed his mouth again, soundless; whatever jibe he might have thrown was abandoned. After a long moment, he ﬁnally offered up his response. "I'll take second watch. Sleep in as long as you'd like. Breakfast will be whenever you wake up."

Jenna accepted his lack of graciousness with a shrug; the gesture was wasted, as he had already turned away. She burrowed down into her blanket, racking her wits for a way to press the advantage, but sleep claimed her before inspiration could arrive ﬁrst.

* * *

 

As untroubled as the passage through Duskwood had been, it was to Granden's relief when the Parlor ﬁnally came  to a halt south of Raven Hill. He was cramped from days on the wagon, his bones jostled by rattling wheels. When he ﬁnally disembarked at the Parlor's main camp, slinging his packs over his shoulder, it felt as if he had spent all the time stuffed inside a bag and beaten with sticks.

Fugue had made no indications during the trip  that the grove had been a positive inﬂuence on his mind  - or even that he had been to the grove at all, for Granden and Limfael had returned from their scouting to ﬁnd the druid already back at the wagon. Made curious by Limfael's tale, Granden had watched Fugue for  any sign of altered behavior, but when it came to feline body language, he was woefully uneducated. One tail- ﬂick seemed much like another to his eyes. Eventually, he had let the mystery lie in peace.

Burrowed among the trees of Raven Hill, the  Parlor camp had entrenched itself with all the determination of a visiting  army. It made use of the thick forests of Duskwood, stringing lanterns and watchcords between the trees to construct a loose fence against the local wildlife. Its tents were clustered around a pavilion whose sides were composed of wide swathes of purple and black fabric overlapping, the guild emblem stitched in silver thread. Carpenters worked in tandem throughout the camp, sanding down fresh coﬃns and haggling over the reserves of wood.

Fugue had made one sniff of the air before slinking beneath the wagon, refusing to be coaxed out. Limfael had crouched beside him, offering whispered words in Darnassian, though Fugue had responded to none of them. After a while, the rogue had straightened up, nodding towards Granden.

"I'll see you later this evening, human," he said, and then he was off, vanishing between the trees.

Hours passed before Granden had been ushered in to see the Oldmoon guildmaster. The pavilion was cozy enough, though it had clearly been rigged in haste - staked out and then  lived in, so that the clutter of storage boxes had become a natural part of the furnishings. The air inside was stuffy, a byproduct of the heavy curtains that served as the pavilion's walls, blocking out sound and granting privacy at  the cost of the breeze. A magpie's eye had decorated the interior, mixing velvet and canvas, glass beads and tasseled ropes. Its centerpiece was formed from a tall, three-legged stool that loomed behind a massive table that was covered in maps  and diagrams, heavy enough to require an entire team of horses for transport.

Jared Oldmoon was a lanky young man, with a face that might have been considered delicate if it were not for the long scars that decorated his exposed skin, crossing over one another at whim. He was a man of expansive gestures, prone to ﬂuttering his hands as if to ward away any foul odors brought on by the existence of unpleasant conversation. His hair was light; his skin, wax-pale. Hunkered over the table, his vest cut from silk rather than sturdy padded leathers, he perched like a king who had been displaced from the usual comforts of his court and was now trying to make do.

After Granden had presented his request, Jared had pursed his lips and reached for the maps. One after another was scanned before the guildmaster ﬁnally gathered up the ledger books at his side, running his ﬁngers down lists of crabbed handwriting before eventually shaking his head.

"So sorry," was Jared's verdict - ﬁrmly, but in a voice that remained humored. "The Parlor _deeply_ sympathizes with your need to mourn, good sir, but you'll have to wait. That particular ledger is still being reviewed. Come back another day."

Unwilling to be turned away so easily, Granden lingered. "Mikel said something about the Victorious being involved. Are they causing the delay?"

The almost imperceptible narrowing of Jared's eyes was the only indication that his query had struck home; the guildmaster's smile didn't fade an inch. "Mikel speaks too much. Ahh," he continued, drawling his sigh in an elongated descent of vowels, "but he's correct. The Vics are important, you know! They're the ones making the rules. If  you want to get anything done, you have to listen to what they want. It used to be Blackwind's crew that set the trend. A strict pack of loonies, but _they_ were at least honorable." Sighing, Jared leaned back precariously on his stool, sweeping up a bottle from the ground and uncorking it in the same motion. He tilted it over his glass until wine dribbled out; the smell was sweet and cloying. Once the glass was full, he placed  it near Granden's hand and began to ﬁll another. "Of course, that goes to show that honor only lasts so long. There's a good  bet going that it'll be the Vics who take Naxxramas.  The Brotherhood of the Light will hire _them_ for the advance. You didn't hear?" he  asked to Granden's inquiring glance. "Since that whole disaster in Ahn'Qiraj, free mercs are getting frowned on. Now we're required to sign  on with whatever Alliance armies are there ﬁrst. The Vics are in a good position to get cozy with the Brotherhood if Blackwind's crew can't perform. And if that happens? People like you and me will have to know which way the wind's blowing if we want to feed our bellies each night."

Granden's ﬁngers closed tentatively around the  stem of the wineglass. He did not choose to drink. "And how exactly is a graveyard of interest in all this?"

Outside, the muffled sound of voices began  to rise; one was pitched sharp with anger. Jared did not  allow himself to become distracted. "Death is a delicate business, sir.  Very few families own proper ground for their dead. You bury your uncle Robert  in the backyard, next thing you know, he's leaking into your water supply -- or the neighbor's dog has dug him up and is dragging him all over the yard. So, graveyards." Not waiting for Granden to taste the vintage ﬁrst, Jared took a long swallow from his own glass. The aged crimson of the wine drew lines down the inside of the rim. "Bones that are expired for rent get removed and interred en masse. When they're old enough, we bake and powder them. The Vics simply want to make sure we're reburying them legally, and not having them vanish in the night. Particularly in this era of walking dead, eh?"

The argument outside cut off suddenly; a wagon creaked its boards. Granden let the noise roll over him without permitting it to break his concentration. "Begging your pardon," he said gently, "but you didn't answer my question."

Taken aback, Jared blinked. "No," he agreed, his pleasant smile plastered back over his face, "I didn't."

"Oldmoon!" Shoving the heavy curtains aside, Limfael stalked into the pavilion. His earlier nonchalance was gone, replaced by harsh fury. Mikel could be seen trailing behind him, his pipe still between his lips; the man waggled his hands in a gesture  of helplessness when Granden looked his way. Without slowing, Limfael dropped the curtains, secluding them from the world once more. " _Felhounds!_ " he exclaimed, brandishing a clenched ﬁst towards the guildmaster. " _Thorarod-alah!_ You said nothing, _nothing_ about felhounds and corpses! If I'd known it was a warlock you were sending me against, I never would have agreed to your terms."

Jared's eyes went to Granden, then back to the night elf. The decision to end the disturbance won out over damage control, for he spoke to  Limfael as if Granden was not present. "Did you get caught?"

Pride overcame affront. Limfael straightened up, his ﬁst dropping to his side. "Of course not."

"Then it doesn't matter if there were warlocks or not. Do you have what I sent you for?"

Limfael's chin jerked. "No. There were bodies in the cellar, and that was  all. The felhound was on guard between me and the rooms upstairs. There was no way through unnoticed. The agreement was that I search through paperwork, human -- _not_ corpses and demons."

"Aren't supposed to be any bodies now," Mikel piped up, nearly forgotten from the corner. The pipe smoke frothed around his teeth. "No fresh burials 'til the Vics are gone. No reason for them to have any coffins, 'specially not full ones --"

"I know what I _saw_ , human," Limfael growled back. He thrust out his ﬁst over the center of the table, and then turned it over, opening his ﬁngers. "If you want proof, then feast your nose and call me a liar after!"

The wrinkled scrap of linen that tumbled from the night elf's hand was stiff with dark stains. A crude metal disc clattered free, no bigger than a coin; it struck the table with a dull _clunk_. The links of a silver chain curled around it like a wounded worm. Unguarded by ghost mushroom oil, the stench of advanced putrescence seeped through the pavilion.

Even before he leaned forward to examine it, Granden knew the pattern that was carved into the disc's surface. His ﬁngers knew the design by heart. His neck knew the weight of its lines, the ridges of the crude ﬂowers dug out of the metal.

He had worn them next to his skin for years.

Moving slowly, Granden reached out and covered the pendant with his hand. "It seems I won't need the books to locate the deceased for mourning," he said into the silence. "Limfael has found her for me."

"What are you saying?" Jared snapped, breaking the hush that had gripped the pavilion. "It's impossible for that to be the corpse you're looking for. _You_ told me you wanted the woman that was paid for by William Liasin from Blackwind's Brigade." He rose off his stool, jabbing one pale ﬁnger at the maps. " _We_ put the Brigade's last shipment in the ground quite some time ago, and his order was among them. Four in total, bound in cold ground - it's all on record, I _assure_ you."

"And I put this pendant around her neck _myself_ ," Granden insisted. He turned his hand over, exposing the pattern to light - though he already knew from touch alone that his ﬁrst glance had not deceived him. Even the chain was the same. No dirt clung to the links; the grime stemmed from bodily decay and the slickness of ghost mushroom oil. "If she was there, then she certainly isn't in the soil."

Jared twisted his head towards Mikel; seeing the hostility in his guildmaster's eyes, Mikel held both his hands in the air. His pipe jutted aloft like a peace ﬂag. "We don't stash empties in the ground!" the man defended. "Someone would have noticed a coffin being light! Who'd waste good wood like that? Y'don't pay us to be fools!"

Limfael cleared his throat. The night elf's affront had been tightly reined in; the only indication of his displeasure was the marked lack of a smile. "Let's assume for the moment that everyone here is being honest. If so, then the biggest question _isn't_ if she's above ground or not," he pointed out. "It's what was buried in her place."

* * *

 

The water had almost ﬁnished boiling before Jenna's blankets stirred. Arithor watched as one hand poked out, and then another, questing in the air like blind moles. Eventually their owner followed them out of her cozy refuge, poking her head into the dim morning sunlight, hair as rumpled as a bird's nest.

"Coffee?" she asked wistfully, peering over an edge of her blanket which had been tucked up to her nose. "Or tea? Are you a total barbarian?"

"You'll be lucky to get hot water," Arithor replied, but he shoved an equal portion of bread towards her without complaining. Two empty mugs were already lined up by the ﬁre, waiting for the pan to ﬁnish heating. He had had to scrub the spare thoroughly, as it had been used to store a tin of boot polish: testament to how often he entertained visitors.

Laughing, Jenna sat up the rest of the way and snatched the food. It  was in her mouth before he could blink. Not waiting on propriety, the woman cupped her ﬁngers to catch the breadcrumbs as she attacked her food, taking large bites with relish despite the poor quality of the meal.

Arithor took no more than a nibble of his own bread, ﬁnding his own appetite slim. "So," he ventured suddenly, forging bravely ahead into conversation. "You'll be on your way to Chillwind, I assume."

Jenna slowed in her chewing, rolling her dark gaze towards him as her teeth worked. Swallowing hard, she licked a crumb off her lip. "I could help you clear the ﬁeld a little ﬁrst. In thanks for the food."

The offer gratiﬁed him more than he expected. He hadn't counted on her staying, but her company -- and her willingness to banter -- had been a refreshing change from ﬁghting undead and other adventurers. "There might not be much to clear. Those gold and white bastards are probably back by now, pushing everyone else out of the way. If they're around, then it's smarter to wait until they've given up for the day."

At the mention of the colors, Jenna frowned. "Gold and white -- the _Vics_ camp out on this ﬁeld? Why?"

"Why else would _any_ of you guilds try to possess a place like this?" Arithor retorted, the sneer coming automatically. "To earn glory at the cost of those who don't _bow_ to your will."

"Shut it," she said, but without any heat in her voice. Her head turned towards Felstone. "If the Vics are dominating the cauldron ﬁelds, then they've got an advantage for getting new people an introduction to the Argent Dawn. _And_ they probably look like they're the only guild making an effort." She fell silent, chewing furiously and nearly biting her own ﬁnger before turning a glare in his direction.

"Tell me," she hissed, "that there's _something_ we can do to stick them in the eye."

He considered. Bravery was one  thing; stupidity was another. "Every time I've seen the undead on the farms become too depleted or the cauldrons start to malfunction, the Scourge have sent out  necromancers to restore them. Felstone's no exception. Cultists should be out to revive the Cauldron Lord soon. It's risky - but if we stopped them before they even reached the ﬁeld, there would be no opportunity for Bilemaw to be reanimated."

Delighted, Jenna snapped her ﬁngers. "Like ﬁghting ﬁre with ﬁre, isn't it? They get in our way, we get in their way ﬁrst. I like it. Let's go."

"Hold up," he warned, alarmed by how quickly she was rising to her feet. "They don't walk unguarded. The cultists usually number three or four strong, and they're no pushovers. I've seen them slaughter entire teams that were caught oﬀ guard - teams that outnumbered them. They're nothing to take on alone."

The prospect of danger only caused Jenna's mouth to quirk. She ﬂexed her palms like a cat kneading the air, ﬁngers stretching like claws. "Well," she said. "It's a good thing you're _not_ alone today, isn't it?"

They hung their gear high in  the tree after ﬁnishing their quick breakfast, Arithor covering the ﬁre and banking the lid with ash. His axe remained in good condition; even with all the ﬁghting he had put it through, the edge retained enough of a shape that it was  capable of easily splitting bone. Unlike a sword, the greataxe did not need to worry as much about cutting with each swing. Its weight backed up its ability to crush obstacles that might be thrown against it, making each stroke count so long as he had the strength to wield it.

Jenna made her preparations with  equal conﬁdence, shifting her daggers to the front of her hips and practicing the draw of her swords to make certain the hilts did not tangle. She did not seem concerned about thieves; when Arithor asked if she was worried about leaving her steed unattended, the woman only threw her head back in a robust laugh and performed an insulting gesture towards the equine.

They made their way on foot. From what little evidence he had collected, Arithor had been able to determine that the revival squads inevitably came from the direction of Andorhal; whether they took a boat from Scholomance and traveled the perimeter, he couldn't say, but they eventually gathered at Andorhal's north road. From there, the squads progressed cross-country, mirroring the main road until they reached one of the cauldron ﬁelds. The return trip was equally straightforward. Despite their enlistment as cultists, they seemed to have no interest in lingering among the destruction their efforts had brought.

Thankfully enough, Arithor's estimations were correct. Undead though they were, the habits of the Scourge was at least regular. Masked by the noises of the poisoned wildlife, he and Jenna  crept towards the crumbling ruins of the city, hoping not to encounter other adventurers or a Scarlet patrol.

There were ﬁve cultists assembled in the woods  by the time they reached the city's outskirts. Four of the cultists stood with their backs towards the road; only one of them was a caster, if the division between robes and armor were any indication. The  three armored soldiers ﬂanked the necromancer attentively, their thumbs hooked in the belts of their weapons. An imp bounced and rolled its tiny body around in the withered grass beside them, chittering to itself as it shifted in and out of phase for its own amusement.

Standing across from the group was the ﬁfth ﬁgure, slender and tall. Hooded, it wore a strange robe that had been sewn from overlapping strips of ivory cloth, like elongated scale mail that had been hewn  from the bark of a diseased birch. At ﬁrst glance, the strips resembled ﬂattened bones, with shreds of ﬂesh still clinging to them, improperly cleaned. Sashed and slit up the sides for ease of movement, the robe revealed an underlayer of crimson leggings. Together, the layers of color combined like a reversal of meat on bone, as if a corpse had been turned inside out - so that its skeleton was in place of its skin, with remnants of muscle attached internally to puppet the joints.

Wrapped from head to toe, with its hood drawn low, it was impossible for Arithor to get an idea of the creature's gender, or even its race. It wasn't the ﬁrst time he'd seen it. He'd never approached  the thing directly, but he had wondered at its purpose among the ranks of the Scourge.

Jenna's weight draped onto his shoulder. Crouched behind him, she wasn't shy about leaning over his body to get a better view. "Who's that?" she hissed into his ear.

He tried to ignore the distraction of her breath. "I don't know," he admitted. "But it's undead, whatever it is. I can  feel the reek of its impurity from here. And it's strong. I've seen it in Andorhol as well, near Araj's square."

She shifted her heels, already hungry for the ﬁght. "Do we take it on too?"

"No." Leaning his head away from the  heat of her mouth, Arithor watched as the four cultists bowed low towards the robed ﬁgure. "The necromancer is going to be hard enough as it is." Mentally running down the list of spells he would have to watch out  for, and which ones he would be unable to counteract, Arithor had only one conclusion. "I hate casters."

Jenna's elbow jabbed him as she pulled away, putting enough distance between herself and the cultists that she could stand without presenting herself as a target. The trees were thickly clustered in this area; she did not have to go far. "Let's seize what advantage we  can," she suggested. "Come on."

Giving one last look towards the cultists, Arithor crawled back to join her. "What did you have in mind?"

A smile opened across her face. "Picking a suitable kill zone."

He followed behind her, trying to catch up sufficiently so that he  could lead the way - but Jenna was too aggressive, plowing determinedly through the forest, only pausing to reorient herself to the  direction of the cultists. _She can't possibly know these woods_ , he thought to himself. _Not better than I do_.

But the lack of familiarity did not deter her. Jenna showed no hesitation  as she walked; the diseased wildlife was no deterrent. She did not skulk past the wolves that snapped warningly in her direction. When one ﬂattened its ears at her, strings of drool dripping from its jaws, she only bared her teeth and growled back.

Only after the cultists had been left sufficiently behind did she pause, picking her way through a small clearing tucked between  the trees. It was not the best of options to ﬁght in. Though the underbrush was thin, trampled by the passage of beasts and travelers, the tight clumps of foliage made it hard to maneuver. Despite the  drawbacks, it was here that Jenna stopped at last, surveying the area intently before ﬁnally making a decisive nod.

"We'll use the trees to keep them on their toes, and _us_ out of sight from the necromancer, if it comes to that," she decided aloud. "Though I'd prefer to have him dead ﬁrst. Doesn't mean that you and I can get separated either, though." Her hands came up; she tugged at the leather bindings of her ponytail, picking at the loose strands. "I'll try to down him as fast as I can. Think you can take care of the rest?"

Arithor needed no time to predict the results of her suggestion. "Just _what_ do you expect me to do?" he asked incredulously. "Play cards with the other three?"

"If we down the caster fast enough, you won't have to worry about them for too long." Dropping her hands to her swords, Jenna gave  the weapons a conﬁdent pat. "Besides, if they see me ﬁrst, it's me they'll attack."

"And the second I try to heal you, they'll turn on _me_. Let's try for a little more strategy than _that_."

Jenna cleared one of her swords from its sheath. "If you can think of anything particularly brilliant in the next two seconds," she replied bluntly, "go for it."

The ﬁrst of the cultists stepped into the clearing.

They rushed together, Jenna taking the lead with her lighter armor, Arithor burdened with his plate and with the weight of the greataxe. He lagged behind; she was ahead and launching herself past the guards within seconds. One of them brought up his shield. She threw herself bodily towards it, gripping it with her empty hand as she twisted her forward impetus around, recklessly utilizing the surface his defense provided to propel herself towards the necromancer. She drew her second sword as she did, going low to allow herself enough room for the draw. Well-oiled, the blade slid free with little protest, rising in an arc towards the caster's face.

The man leapt back, spitting the phrases for a shadowborn curse. The spell burst in black thorns around Jenna's body, encircling her for only an instant before burrowing into her limbs, ignoring the physical defenses of her armor.

The three guardsmen closed ranks around her.

Experienced with the tricks of necromancers, Arithor did not waste time trying to call upon the Light to cleanse the foul magic. Such curses were beyond his scope. Instead, his prayer was phrased directly for healing, intended to ease the worst of the initial damage and keep Jenna's health stable under the upcoming assault. A golden glow licked down Jenna's shoulders before fading away; he saw her grin as she lunged again, disrupting the necromancer's concentration.

Predictably enough, the three armored cultists turned towards him, warned by the appearance of his spell. Jenna spun about to clip the closest one, annoying him enough that he switched his target back to her, but the other two charged directly for Arithor.

Their rush was faster than he expected. Even as he brought up his axe, one was inside his guard. A sword drove itself towards the weaker joints of his armor's midsection; he twisted in time to deﬂect it from a killing thrust, but its edge dug into his chainmail. His next attempt  at calling upon the Light was ruined as the second guard whipped his shield forward in a punch. Forced to save his breath, Arithor cycled through parry after parry, frantically shifting his footing across the treacherous ground.

As he fumbled, Jenna fell back towards him, twisting to bat at the necromancer as she retreated. Her swipe at one of the guards drew a howl. Drawing their ire gleefully as she bounded among their ranks, the woman played at distraction. Freed suddenly to act, Arithor tossed oﬀ a quick prayer to the Light, breathing easier as he felt its power soothe his wounds. Forced on the defense more than he would have liked, he had almost no opportunity for a counterattack. Like it or not, Arithor had to trust that Jenna would carry their oﬀensive; his responsibility was to make sure they both stayed alive.

Mock her former guild membership as  he might, Jenna's experience made for smooth ﬁghting. It was clear that she was not only familiar with sparring with paladins, but also ﬁghting alongside them. She slipped between his axe swings deftly, stinging the cultists with her swords. Her teamwork was solid. As if tethered on  an invisible leash, she never got too far out of range from his spells; possessing greater mobility, she roamed back and forth, allowing him to stand upon a single point of ground rather than waste his breath chasing her about. He counted out his healing spells carefully, trying to conserve what energy he  could, aware of how quickly death could swallow them both.

Caught in the frenzy of battle, Arithor did not notice the exact moment when the necromancer fell. All he could see  in the chaos were the swords aimed in his direction, blocking the view between himself and Jenna; as lethal as his greataxe was, its ability to defend largely relied on maintaining enough distance to allow him to swing. The man to his right hitched half a step closer. Then Jenna streaked past, twisting to slam the pommel of her sword into the cultist's kidneys, and no one came chasing behind her in pursuit.

Two opponents stood on the ﬁeld now instead of four. Jenna's  victims were bloody masses on the ground; Arithor's were ﬁxated on him, having decided that he was the greater threat with his healing spells. Their determination would have been ﬂattering, if it also wasn't lethal. Yet by keeping their focus, Arithor gave Jenna the freedom to work - even if it meant that his own abilities were hobbled.

Fighting the necromancer had taken its toll upon Jenna's strength. Black patches crawled up the skin of her  face, gnawing at her ﬂesh even as her body struggled against the corruption. Arithor twisted around the next attack, parrying it with the reinforced handle of the axe, and lifted a quick prayer to the Light. With a cleansing ﬂash of power, the corruption was halted; the tainted smear of black erased itself from Jenna's body, leaving the fresh crimson of clean wounds behind.

She grinned, breathless, and  plunged a sword deep into the gut of one of the guards. The last man tried to escape; Jenna staggered as she attempted to follow, and then dredged up the strength to run after him, ﬁnishing a clumsy slash at his leg that slowed him long enough for her to catch up for a killing stroke.

Panting, she braced her hands on her knees. "Not bad for an afternoon workout," she puffed.

"It could have been worse," Arithor allowed. The words were scratchy; his throat was parched from prayers. The craving for water was painful. "This -- wasn't bad."

As he rubbed a ﬁnger along his gorget, Jenna bent back over the cultist  she had just killed. Working briskly, she yanked the man's helmet oﬀ. But it wasn't looting valuables she intended; once the helmet was freed, she tossed it aside without a second glance for  its worth. She then proceeded to roll the body, folding it up until it sat slouched over, angled away towards the forest. Taking aim carefully, she lifted her sword.

Arithor stared as she brought the blade down in a brutal swing, hacking the man's spine in two. The head toppled  free; Jenna kicked the body over before it could spray her too badly. "What are you _doing_?"

Her returning look was equally baffled as  she fetched the skull by its hair. "What does it look like? Making sure they're dead." Shaking the severed head a few times as if it were a piece of sodden laundry, she dropped it in the withered grass and moved towards a second corpse. "Standard for any kill. Even if these aren't a bounty to collect on, do _you_ want to have that undead we saw come back and raise them as  zombies? I think they'd hold a grudge."

The logic was straightforward, but chillingly practical. It spoke of killing as a different act than what Arithor was used to on his own. Death was a practical business to Jenna -- not a sacred crusade. _Mercenaries_ , he thought disgustedly. "What are you planning to do with them, then? Keep them as souvenirs?"

"Don't be stupid." Pausing to shake the gore from her blade, Jenna lobbed the second head towards the ﬁrst. "I'll throw them in the lake."

While Jenna occupied herself with corpse disfigurement, Arithor engaged in a more practical disrespect for the dead: he searched their pockets. None of them were carrying anything more distinctive than coins in their supply pouches. He was not lucky enough to find marching orders, or anything else that might have lent insight into the nature of their undead commander. All four owned Scourgestones as a mark of elevation in the ranks; since Jenna had ignored the tokens, he pocketed the stones with no qualms.

Having collected her grisly prizes, Jenna flopped down to the ground, kicking out her legs haphazardly. Her cheeks were raw from their brush with necromancy; her right sleeve was soaked through with blood. Despite this, her voice remained upbeat. "So, is this all you do for fun?"

Arithor narrowed his eyes at the dripping stain. He made an impatient flick of his fingers, holding out a palm expectantly until she groaned, and shifted closer to lay her arm in his grasp. "Yes," he answered, half his mind on his reply and the rest on her open wound. "I clear the field in hopes of putting a final end to their perversions. The Argent Dawn doesn't seem to mind -- they look favorably upon those who do their chattel work. And there are a few benefits to being on their good side. Rumors has it that those who are indoctrinated to the Argent Dawn's highest ranks end up learning the secret of how to master Rivendare's horse underneath the touch of the Light. Imagine what a blow _that_ would strike to the Baron's pride," he added, his smile twisting as holy power danced over his fingers. "Capturing his horse and using it for your own."

"Sounds like a load of propaganda to me," Jenna huffed, shutting one eye tight in a grimace as Arithor peeled back her sleeve. "Some smart Argent Dawn soldier said, hey, I'll just _tell_ people there's a great reward for doing my work, and I'll go nip off for a drink in the meantime."

Counted together, Jenna's wounds were worse than Arithor expected, but nothing he could not mend. Her chainmail had held up against the attacks, but most metals were useless where magic was concerned; necromancy could penetrate through plate as easily as a cloth rag. The fact that she hadn't complained was a mark in her favor. She hadn't cringed, either; even those who were experienced with killing Scourge could be squeamish about afflictions, afraid of putrefaction taking permanent root in their flesh.

"You fought well," he told her grudgingly, finally releasing her arm.

She rolled her eyes. "It's the equipment. Enchantments, not skill, right?" Climbing back to her feet, the woman made a few experimental swings of her hand. "Come on then," she decided, scooping up the skulls. "Let me dump these, and then we can go enjoy the fruits of our labors."

At Felstone, the other adventurers were milling about. The undead had visibly thinned, depreciated by eager collectors of Scourgestones. Without necromatic restoration, the cauldron had run down, its contents slowed to a burble. The lack of combat left everyone idle, chasing down the few skeletons that were managing to revive. A few warriors were even passing the time in careless duels. The gold and white of the Vics had scattered out as their members sought to claim any target unfortunate enough to show itself. Jenna, catching sight of them, flipped her fingers rudely in the air -- but her temper was merry, and she hummed to herself as she and Arithor trudged back to the camp.

Luck had held with them; thieves had not struck in their absence. Jenna's mare snorted disdainfully as they approached. Jenna snorted back.

"Now what?" she grinned at Arithor, finding a spare wad of runecloth and wiping down her fingers of stray gore.

"We could always chase the Scarlets away too," he suggested, glancing towards the camp that had claimed a corner of the blighted fields. The monks in their crimson uniforms were glaring sulkily at the wilderness, equally thwarted by the disruption in the Scourge.

"You know, heads can get very _messy_ after a while," Jenna said matter-of-factly. She tucked the cloth in her belt and began to gather her supplies. "We've bought some time, right? Let's take the barn. If the two of us can't take over a single decrepit building, we should throw down our weapons right now in shame."

Flush with adrenaline, Arithor found himself nodding. "I'll race you."

After fighting the cultists, mere skeletons seemed like child's play. Arithor led the way into the barn, swinging his greataxe as if he sought to chop through the walls; Jenna tore through the undead like a whirlwind, ducking past his weapon with careless glee for how close she came to decapitation. He marveled at how simple it seemed now. On his own, he never would have dared such an offense. He had long given up entirely on even setting foot inside the barn, but Jenna's recklessness broke through his assumptions, and dragged him headlong into the fray.

In remarkably short time, they emptied the building together. The shattered remains of skeletons were strewn over the moldering hay, mixed together where they had been struck down. One of the stalls was intact enough to lead Jenna's horse into; the mare stamped her hooves, but accepted the feed bag with only a few nips at Jenna's hand.

Arithor scuffed his boot against the barn's floor. "We should figure out where to set the fire. Even if we _could_ clean a trustworthy space in here, there's no good vent for the smoke to escape. We'll have to build it outside."

"That's fine." Jenna hefted a stash of bones past him, her arms brimming with femurs. He followed her out, watching as she flipped them end over end into the field. One hit the ground and stuck into the softened dirt, jutting out at an angle like a broken fencepost. "It'll warn off the others."

"And keep us awake all night."

"So take a lantern and sleep inside." Another bone whirled through the air, smacking a rotting pumpkin and sending up a spray of pulp.

"Your horse terrifies me," he replied blandly. "Besides, it'll be warmer by the fire."

She stooped and came up quickly, pitching her bedroll at him. He caught her blanket against his chest. A corner of it flapped against his mouth; he could smell the dampness in the wool. A few more nights and the reek of the Plaguewoods would never come clean.

He set up the bedrolls on one side of the barn door, marveling at the normality of having an actual building to block out the weather. His blankets were far enough inside the cranny of the entryway that intruders wouldn't step on him if they tried to rush. Dinner consisted of more bread from his reserves, along with the dried carrot and jerky that was normally reserved for special occasions. Jenna laughed as she accepted the treats, and stole an extra helping before Arithor could stop her.

The sun hid itself behind the murky horizon while they ate. The other packs of adventurers, realizing that the Cauldron Lord would not be restored, began to disperse for the evening. The view of the cauldron in the fields was ghastly -- but it seemed meeker somehow, tamed by the light of the fire and the small circle of warmth that was cast.

 _Someday,_ Arithor thought, chewing on a strip of jerky, _this will be farmland again. Someday, there will be no need to shed blood here._

_And I'll have to move on to the next fight._

The peace was soothing. He could rest knowing that he had fought hard to achieve it -- that it hadn't simply been handed over limpidly, with no appreciation for its value. In the stillness, his mind felt as if it had stopped in place.

He was _content_.

"It's been fun here," Jenna said suddenly, as the fire snapped and crunched through its supply of twigs. "Like kids playing at forts."

He rolled over onto his side, peering out into the field. The fire blocked his vision; he couldn't see anything past the flames and the vague silhouette of Jenna's body.

"I'll need to go back to Chillwind for supplies soon," he said into the darkness. "You could come with me. We could get enough to reinforce the barn, if you'd like."

She didn't answer at first. The scrape of her whetstone slowed. "It's late," she said eventually. "You take first watch."

He crawled up near the fire, changing places with her as she retreated back in the entryway to rest. The field was quiet, the _chirr_ of insects filling in the empty places where the undead would have creaked and moaned. When his turn was up, he tapped her on the shoulder, and then wrapped himself in his bedding.

Nothing disturbed them. He woke anyway during the night, opening his eyes out of habit, expecting to find undead skulking towards him. When he twisted his head to squint out the barn, Jenna was still there by the fire, breathing softly.

He rolled over and went back to sleep.

She was gone the next morning. Her bedroll was missing; her horse was absent. The fire had been banked down, the lid set at an angle to allow the coals some air while they smothered in their own ash. He didn't know how she managed to leave without him noticing. His senses weren't fuzzy from herbs -- she hadn't doused him or knocked him out. She must either have been confident in her ability to be discreet, or just hadn't cared if he'd known.

And he had slept straight through. Within so short a time, he had become so accustomed to her being there that the noise hadn't disturbed him.

Around the perimeter of the field, the other camps were stirring, readying themselves for another day spent pitting themselves against the Scourge. One necromancer had been thwarted, but the undead would eventually revive when the cultists sent more.

Arithor didn't join them. He sat beside the cooling embers of the fire, and watched the colors slowly die.


End file.
